


Without You

by Frayach



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Break Up, Canon Compliant, Complete, Gap Filler, Getting Back Together, Heartbreak, Jealousy, M/M, POV Multiple, Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-28
Updated: 2013-09-30
Packaged: 2017-12-15 22:10:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 27,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/854558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frayach/pseuds/Frayach
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p></p><div class="center">
  <p> </p>
  <p>    <img/></p>
</div>Justin has had it.  This "thing" (whatever it is) with Brian isn't working out.  He needs more than fucking and a rare unguarded smile.  He needs unambiguous love and a sense of safety; after all his life's been turned upside-down by violence.  Brian seems determined to snatch back even the smallest gifts just minutes after he gives them.  The straws keep piling up and up . . . and then along comes Ethan Gold.  Talented, romantic and unashamed of his feelings.<p>Brian has his heart broken, which would be good for him and his self-development if it wasn't killing him.  He isn't angry; he even tries to convince himself he's relieved, and, as usual, everyone buys it.  Even Justin.  Talk about being one's own worst enemy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I really loathe the fact that we don't get to see more of Justin's thought process during the whole Ethan affair. His return to Brian lacks a meaningful foundation (getting fucked in midair doesn't cut it - especially when his big gripe about Brian is his inability to communicate except through sex). I'm trying to fill in the blanks with this "story." I put the word in quotation marks because it's not a "traditional" narrative but a collection of loosely connected drabbles (strict 100-work limit per paragraph). I love writing drabbles. Every now and then it's fun to work with rules and restrictions. It creates a different kind of story-telling.
> 
> The gorgeous banner was made for me by Writcraft.

_Justin_

The Rules turned out to be a really stupid idea. No kissing, no asking names, no seeing the “trick” again – those things were easy for Brian, but Justin found them impossible to live by and still like himself. That cute guy at Daphne’s party? He was sweet. He wanted to be boyfriends. It was like sleeping with Daphne all over again except with a guy – a guy who probably hadn’t even come out yet. Justin had gone all Brian Kinney on him. It didn’t feel empowering; it felt shitty. Brian could do shitty. Justin couldn’t – and he didn’t want to.

Justin should’ve left when Brian didn’t come to the hospital, but he hadn’t. He should’ve left after Cucumber Guy. He should’ve stayed away when Brian admitted that they were living together only because he felt guilty about the bashing. He should’ve left every Goddamn time he walked into the loft, which, by the way, was his home too, to find Brian fucking some guy. And he definitely should’ve left every time Brian insisted they weren’t a couple – that they were some kind of weird entity that defied definition, that Justin was merely a repeat fuck, unlike the others. How romantic.

It was always Brian. Brian, Brian, Brian. Brian always got his way. Brian always won the argument. Brian, because he was what? . . . hot? . . . a bully? . . . got away with pissing – literally _pissing_ on Justin’s artwork. Even sturdy relationships don’t survive shit like that, let alone their mutant, fuck-based, alcohol-infused, joke of an acquaintanceship. (Some days Justin doubted whether Brian considered him a friend, let alone a lover.) No one questioned the mighty Brian Kinney; nobody called him on his shit. But one more shove and Justin would. It was high fucking time.

Did Brian know that he could ruin Justin’s day with a dismissive glance? Did he know he pushed Justin off a cliff every time he felt “threatened” in some mysterious way? Or was it just instinct? Brian once told Justin he’d made a “real enemy” when Justin had confronted Hobbs, but did Brian know _he_ left enemies in his wake everywhere he went? How many tricks had he kicked to the curb? How many employees had he humiliated? How many people will cheer when he inevitably staggered? How many people will be happy to stand back and watch him fall?

_Brian_

Justin freaked him out. He was neither a man nor a child, but he vacillated between the two with alarming frequency and speed. It happened all the time. Justin would be listening to one of Emmett’s Southern Gothic stories with his eyes eager and his mouth slightly open. Then five minutes later, he’s breathing hot, wet, filthy words in Brian’s ear. Brian was never completely at ease with Justin around. Justin scrambled his protect and fuck instincts like two radio stations blending discordantly together when you drive out of the range of one and into the range of the other.

He was a shit. He knew he was a shit. He was shitty to waiters, tailors, checkout clerks, even tollbooth operators. He was shitty to everyone at work, everyone at Woody’s, even everyone at the gym. He’d be shitty to people at Babylon too if the music wasn’t so loud. He was shitty to his tricks, shitty to mechanics, shitty to Chinese delivery guys – he was even shitty to his friends. And he was shitty to Justin. Why should he be an exception? Because they fell asleep beside each other every night and woke up in each other’s arms? Bullshit.

Justin would go someday. The only question was when. Brian was terrified he’d be caught unaware – that he’d come home some night and find Justin with his shit packed. Brian would spook-out; they’d argue; Justin would ask for something small and reasonable, and Brian would say something shitty. Then Justin would leave. Despite appearances, Brian wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment guy. He liked knowing things in advance. He liked calendars and datebooks and spent far too much time and money in Staples. He hated surprises, so he insured Justin would never surprise him. It was called pre-emptive strikes. Brian excelled at them.

Justin was constantly breaking The Rules. He was apparently incapable of fucking someone without kissing them. Brian was annoyed, not by the kissing because, really, who cared? He was annoyed because Justin had made The Rules in the first place, and Brian was pretty sure Justin would tear off his head and use it as a pasta bowl if he thought Brian was not in compliance. Double standards pissed Brian off, but he kept reminding himself that Justin was young and didn’t know his ass from a turnip when it came to navigating the tricky (ha ha) shoals of sex. 

_Justin_

Thank God for the go-go boy thing! While he’d been dancing, there was no doubt in Justin’s mind that Brian wanted him. Often he caught Brian glaring at some guy who’d just slipped a bill under the waistband of Justin’s shorts. Brian could pretend indifference with the best of them, but he sucked at disguising jealousy, and, Christ, was he jealous! His jaw clenched, his nostrils flared, and his curled lip was obvious from the bar. Best of all, when they got home, Brian would fuck him with abandon, pull the condom off, and come all over Justin’s face. _Mine_.

He needed to stop listening to Brian’s 80s music. Every song reminded him of what he wanted from Brian but that Brian would never give. _I was standing/You were there/Two worlds collided/And they could never tear us apart_. Perfect lyrics for the night they met? Yeah, right. If he and Brian ever got married (ha ha, right?) their song would be Frankie Goes to Hollywood’s “Relax.” _Never Tear Us Apart_? Brian was always doing exactly that, and it was killing Justin. He needed more than what Brian grudgingly gave. He needed more than an occasional hint. He needed a promise.

Boring. Justin spat out his coffee when Vic said it. “Brian? Boring?” But then he thought about it for a few days and realized Vic was right. Brian had only five places where he felt truly comfortable. Babylon, the baths, the boardroom, the diner and Deb’s. Go too far from Liberty Ave, and Brian got fidgety and withdrawn. He honked, glared, and mumbled expletives. It sucked. Justin wanted to venture forth and explore, but every time he suggested it, Brian would pick a fight and throw him out for the day. Needless to say, neither explanations nor apologies were forthcoming.

Sometimes Justin wondered if Brian knew him or even wanted to, but the night Brain relinquished the condom and let Justin nudge him onto his stomach, he knew Brian understood. He hadn’t wanted Brian’s help with tuition, but The Sap’s party changed all that. He _needed_ Brian’s help, and he finally found the courage to accept it. Brian recognized the acquiescence and offered one of his own. When Justin pushed inside him, Brian rose to his knees and pushed back with a deep, ragged groan. Give and take, take and give. Why couldn’t it be like that all the time?

_Brian_

He hadn’t bottomed for ages and would’ve been fine if he never did again. It hurt, and the feeling of fullness was uncomfortable. He never got hard, let alone came. He felt pinned like a butterfly in a box. It felt no different with Justin, but he came anyway, his voice hitching on a sob, his face buried in his pillow, and his ass in the air. Afterward, things were weird, their roles reversed. It was Justin gently inserting his soapy fingers, cleaning away the lube from the tender flesh and asking if Brian was alright, if he’d enjoyed it.

He’d never, in a million years, let a trick top him, but he’d let Justin, which only meant one thing. Justin was no longer even arguably a trick. Even Brian couldn’t escape the obvious despite being a master of denial. Justin was his boyfriend. How the fuck had that happened? He didn’t want a boyfriend. A lover, perhaps, but not a boyfriend with all the banal connotations the term evoked. So they ate meals together, shared shampoo, argued over the remote, and lounged on the rug, lazily swapping sections of the Sunday paper? So Justin had fucked him? So what?

He didn’t even like blonds. Tall, dark and smoldering was his thing – men with whiskers and hair on their chests, definitely not teenagers with just the hint of baby fat clinging to their muscles. And don’t even get him going about the sneakers. Sneakers were for the gym. Period. Where the fuck had this unshakeable desire come from? This rooted need to guide, to protect? He was uncomfortable and discontent if Justin wasn’t in sight; he didn’t need to always be touching, he just wanted to keep an eye on him, to know where he was. To know he’s okay. 

Deep down, Brian knew he had limited appeal. A therapist might even label it “poor self-esteem.” But if his insides were vulnerable, his protective shell was impenetrable. He’d spent years fortifying it with youth and beauty and talent – and an ability to hurt people, even cripple them, if he so chose. But Justin refused to be hurt, let only crippled. His persistence was unnerving, his tenacity downright terrifying. So Brian did his utmost best to break him – not because he couldn’t fend off the dogged assault, but because loving him was the only stupid thing he’d ever seen Justin do. 

_Justin_

Daphne stopped being a fan when Brian didn’t visit Justin in the hospital. Not even the bloody scarf made up for Brian’s absence. She was shocked by Justin’s casual acceptance. _It was cowardly_ , she correctly told him, but Brian’s fearfulness wasn’t something Justin hadn’t already accepted. It was part of the whole package that was Brian. It was easier for Brian to endure the contempt of his friends than reveal anything but indifferent acceptance of circumstance. Brian had exhausted his bravery when he came to the prom. The only thing that broke Justin’s heart was that he couldn’t remember it.

If anything bothered Justin, it was Brian’s refusal to discuss the bashing. _Forget about it_ was his solution to the savage anger, the grief over his hand, the fraying of his confidence. Justin _needed_ to talk about it. He needed to cry and be held, but Brian hated need. It was “pathetic.” The irony was that Brian, himself, was full of need: the need to be worshipped, the need to be the best at everything he did. It was frustrating that Brian didn’t seem to realize, let alone acknowledge, it. Brian knew so much, but he knew nothing about himself.

Brian said “I love you” through sex. He also said “I’m angry,” “I’m happy,” and even “I’m sorry.” It wasn’t that Justin didn’t realize it – and he certainly knew that Brian was saying “I trust you” when he let Justin top him – it was that Brian also had sex with other guys, and the only message that sent Justin was “fuck you and your need for safety.” Brian’s insistence that it was nothing, that it meant nothing, was bullshit – and it wasn’t enough. Only monogamy would be enough or, at the very least, an acknowledgment that they were a couple.

It’d been unconscious at the time – the fact that he was giving Brian a last chance with his birthday – but when Brian failed to grasp it, the realization that they were over was clear. Hours ticked by and then days. Justin knew it wasn’t because Brian didn’t know – he knew alright; everyone deliberately kept wishing him “happy birthday” in Brian’s presence. It was just another of Brian’s attempts to keep him away, to keep him on his toes. Justin was sick of it. Wordless fucks were no longer enough. The gift of a rare unguarded smile was no longer enough.

_Brian_

Justin would never know that Brian watched him constantly. He was adept at looking away, at looking indifferent on the rare occasion he got caught. He watched Justin draw; he watched Justin cook; if they weren’t showering together, he watched Justin in the mirror while he shaved. He watched Justin walk away when he dropped him off at school; he watched Justin walk into Woody’s, looking around until he spotted him. Of course, then he’d look away and treat Justin’s kiss like a mosquito. He watched him while he talked to the boys at Babylon. He even watched Justin sleep.

Boyfriends didn’t ignore each other’s birthdays, which meant that, perhaps, they weren’t really boyfriends after all. Nor did boyfriends finally cave into lesbionic pressure and buy their “boyfriend” a night with a hustler. If he had let things happen that gave Justin the wrong impression, he could just as easily disabuse him of his hard-won assumptions. The fact that it hurt to watch a spark of hope sputter and die in Justin’s eyes wouldn’t deter him from pursuing his goal. Brian didn’t want to split-up; he just wanted to remind Justin of the razor wire fortifying his heart’s militarized borders. 

It wasn’t that he didn’t know Justin was unhappy. He was snarky, grudgingly affectionate, even occasionally uninterested in sex. Brian knew what all the solo showers meant, the missed curfews, the faces turned away from a kiss. He wasn’t blind; he was just powerless to stop it. There was an inevitability to it, an unwelcome whisper of fate. Of course, Justin would leave at some point! But it felt too soon. There were things Brian might’ve done; things he might’ve even learned to say. Now it was too late. It was a damn good thing he hadn’t fallen in love.

After Justin left him for the fiddler, Brian tried to figure out why he’d sabotaged his own life. It wasn’t as though he couldn’t have joined Justin in Vermont when he returned from Chicago. It wasn’t as though he’d forgotten how to dial a phone. Maybe it was what he’d said to Michael when the Doc stormed out of the loft after Michael had insisted they cut their little weekend in the country short so he could rush to Brian’s side after the accident. _Don’t go after him, Mikey. Don’t ever go after anyone_. Pride – the eternal enemy of happiness.

_Justin_

He’d waited until the waiting oozed like March slush into his bones. Brian knew where he was. Justin gave him the brochure. At first, he’d allowed himself to believe Brian was merely afraid of looking stupid (he’d confessed he’d never snowboarded before), but the absence of a phone call revealed the truth. Brian simply didn’t give a shit. He was fucking some guy while Justin sat in the hot tub for two. He was getting blown while Justin lay awake in the king-sized bed. By Friday, he’d decided to leave Brian. He only needed the right opportunity. Enter Ethan Gold.

He was beautiful. Maybe not as beautiful as Brian, but that was a good thing, right? Justin didn’t want another boyfriend who turned heads. Whereas Brian’s movements were elegant and sensual, Ethan loped along, loose and comfortable just like his thrift-store clothes. Whereas Brian’s body was classically perfect, too close to the statue of David, too easy to worship, Ethan’s was flawed in endearing ways. Ethan had eyes Justin could plunge into and enjoy the fall. So unlike the ankle-deep shoals of Brian’s eyes. Dive into them and wind up broken on hidden rocks – naked, helpless and left for dead.

Brian pulled back the duvet, his gaze soft, even guileless. It wasn’t like Justin couldn’t read the message. But it was too little, too late. He’d fallen in love with Ethan. At least he was pretty sure he had. It didn’t feel like it had with Brian – cataclysmic, volcanic and crazy-making – instead it felt tender and respectful and, most of all, safe. Ethan was the refuge, not the hurricane. The shelter, not the storm. Love should make you feel cherished – or at the very least, wanted. Brian had made Justin feel like a buzzing fly. An annoyance to be evaded. 

When he walked out of the party with Ethan clutching his hand, he turned to see Brian. His expression. He was virtually unrecognizable. Shocked. Wounded. Stabbed in the heart. Justin felt elated. Brian loved him! He _loved_ him! Ethan looked at him oddly when Justin grabbed his hands on the sidewalk and spun him around. Brian loved him! He could shout it out loud. At last! He threw his arms around Ethan’s neck and kissed him, and slowly Ethan’s confused frown turned into a grin. _I didn’t know how you’d react_ , he said. _Let’s go home and fuck_ , Justin replied. 

_Brian_

It’d never occurred to Brian – at least not consciously – that Justin would leave him for that scruffy, sea-weedy twerp. Brian knew men, and Ethan did _not_ have a nine-inch cock. Nor 24-karet gold Ben Wa balls or hand-blown glass sounding rods. He probably didn’t even have handcuffs. Brian had taught Justin too much; he’d taken Justin to the sheer edge of coherence with nothing but his tongue. There was no going back. Justin knew what it was like to be fucked . . . and he knew what it was like to fuck. After all, he’d fucked Brian. Case closed.

It was too late when Brian finally acknowledged Justin was gone – maybe not yet in body, but in spirit. In the end, it turned out that fucking and protecting weren’t enough. Justin thought he needed what everyone thought they needed: cards, flowers, teddy-bears, chocolates. Brian would never give him any of those things. Sure, he could _buy_ them. Of course he could. He could fill the loft with roses. He could ply Justin with hand-crafted chocolates and four-course candle-lit dinners. But was that love? Would Justin be fool enough to think so? Brian was crushed when he realized he was.

He’d realized too late that Justin saw him fucking Rage. When the fiddler kissed him, when Justin turned to look at Brian and then turned away, Brian knew it was over. He went home. Alone. The night was long. The silence tight as a noose. The morning was a star’s dying breath away. Lifetimes passed before the sun rose; when it did, Brian got up. He took a shower, shaved, dressed and drank some coffee. Then he drove to work. Rinse and repeat. Day after day. One foot in front of the other. Survival isn’t pretty. It isn’t even interesting.

Justin looked good. He looked rested and healthy. His smile was tentative, but real. Even Lindsay agreed. Nothing changed. Deb bustled around dropping allusions to butt-sex and blow-jobs. Ted kept trying to expand his tastes beyond tuna sandwiches and vanilla pudding. Emmett still ate his doughnut with a fork, and Mikey was still gah-gah over the Professor. After the first few awkward weeks, no one glanced nervously back and forth between him and Justin. Embedding himself in the _Pittsburgh Post_ no longer yielded nudges and sad knowing smiles. It was over. The earth still circled the sun. Life went on.


	2. Chapter 2

 

_Justin_

Brian didn’t look good; he was the portrait of wounded pride. He was pale and tired-looking, which could only mean he was fucking himself into oblivion every night. Justin wasn’t arrogant enough to think it was because of him. (Brian had probably lost an account or been turned down by a would-be trick.) But once in a while he let himself daydream that he’d broken Brian’s heart. Was that weary voice and those tired eyes his fault? Justin could only wish that they were. He was appalled when he realized that he was still measuring his happiness by Brian’s expressions. 

It took a few days, but eventually Brian started acknowledging Justin when he walked in the diner. It was never more than a “hey” or a snide comment about Justin’s clothes. Justin always made a point of smiling brightly when he returned Brian’s greeting and ignoring him when he was being shitty. He was going to be mature about the whole thing; everyone complimented him on his grace under pressure. For his own part, Brian rarely smiled, and when he did, he looked like Beelzebub in an Armani suit. Nobody mentioned it. It was the elephant in the living room. 

Ethan had promised him romance, and, boy, did he deliver! Every morning, Justin woke to warm, coffee-scented kisses. (Brian hated “coffee breath.”) Often he found love notes on little scraps of paper in his pockets. (Brian would die before he did anything like that.) Ethan wrote music for him, read to him, spent his hard-earned dollars on wine and candles and chocolate. (Brian bought him beers and shots of whiskey; a buzz never failed to make Justin horny as hell, and Brian knew it.) Ethan cuddled after sex. (Brian smoked a cigarette and bitched about work.) Justin was genuinely happy. 

For days, Justin believed Brian was being sarcastic. _I hope you find what you’re looking for_. Fucker. Was that it? Just a disdainful dismissal? But seeing Michael’s shiner kept reminded him of what’d happened next. Brian would never throw an unprovoked punch. Especially not at someone he loved, and Justin knew he loved Michael. They’d been glancing in his and Ethan’s direction, talking about them – arguing about them – and then suddenly Michael was on the ground, and Brian was shaking out his hand. Something must’ve been said. Something unforgivable. Maybe Brian hadn’t been sarcastic. Maybe he was just saying good-bye. 

_Brian_

He’d always saved Michael from getting punched, not done the punching himself. Ben had tried to return the favor. Deb called him a “fucking monster.” Everyone was disgusted and agreed he should leave immediately. The little boy Brian had been wanted to justify his actions, but the man he’d become knew he deserved it. But, Christ! Of all the things he could’ve said, why had Michael said _that_? Michael knew Justin wasn’t the only one who’d barely survived the bashing. Michael had been there. He’d seen Justin in that hospital bed. He’d held Brian night after night while he cried. 

The next day, Brian hired a hustler. It’d been a fucking pain finding a guy who looked even passingly like Justin, but he’d been desperate. Justin had deprived him of a farewell fuck. He’d deprived Brian of a chance to hear him say the words that would end their whatever-the-fuck-it-was. He’d deprived Brian of the chance – no, the _right_ – to have Justin’s cock in his mouth, the feeling of Justin beneath him, one last time. With the loft dark except for the neon, it was almost easy to believe the hustler was the person Brian had paid him to be. 

Brian finally acknowledged that “no apologies, no regrets” was bullshit – at least as far as Justin was concerned. Every time Ethan came to the diner with roses or a new sketchpad, Brian was sorry. Every time he saw Ethan waiting outside in the cold for Justin’s shift to end, Brian regretted every day they’d been together. Sometimes because he wished he’d given Justin the same attention, the same assurances. Other times because he cursed the fact they’d ever met. Brian would still be his old insouciant self, and Justin would be nothing more than a twink who served him coffee. 

If he was sufficiently fucked-up, the tricks looked just like Justin, even when they were on their backs. With enough Beam, trail-mix and coke, he could fuck them face-to-face and still believe they were his long-lost Sunshine. But then he’d shoot his load, and the illusion would vanish; then God save them if they asked to take a shower before Brian kicked them out. When they left, he felt exhausted. He didn’t go back to Babylon or smoke pot and surf for porn. Instead he leaned over the toilet, stuck his finger down his throat, puked, and went to bed. 

_Justin_

Ethan was only being romantic when he occasionally stopped by the diner with tokens of his affection, and if he felt insecure, it was only to be expected. After all, Justin’s ex was the most sought-after man in Pittsburgh. Even Ethan himself had agreed Brian was beautiful. But as charmed as part of Justin was, the other part wanted Ethan to stop. Yes, it earned him a kiss from Deb and smiles from the wait staff, but, if he was there, it made Brian curl up into himself. The sight didn’t make Justin as happy as he wanted it to. 

For the first time, Justin started to see himself as an artist and not just a kid with a hobby. Ethan equated Justin’s drawings with his music. They’d both been damaged by hate. They’d both nurtured their talents in the shadow of grief and pain. They were kindred spirits moved beyond comprehension by beauty, by truth, by the creative tides of the universe. Justin was no longer a college student with divorcing parents and a job busing tables. He was free and alive and allowed to believe that people might give a shit. The fact he missed Brian meant nothing. 

Ethan had a mental dictionary filled with words he thought described Brian. Materialistic. Arrogant. Selfish. Jaded. Manipulative. Vain. Cunning, cynical and cruel. Justin never argued because Ethan was right. But being right about some things is not the same as knowing the whole truth. Time, distance – and safety – had revealed other words that described Brian. Vulnerable. Sensitive. Generous. Loyal . . . and, yes, even loving. Once, Brian had been all sex and skin and taunting eyes. Now he was just, well, Brian. Fidgety, clever, easily sunburned, occasionally quirky, fond of ketchup, grumpy on rainy days, unconvincingly self-satisfied. And lonely. 

He didn’t want to talk about Brian – not with Ethan, not with his mom, and not with Daphne. Especially Daphne. She kept insisting he wasn’t over Brian. It was fucking annoying. How many times did he have to tell her that he was with Ethan now and Brian could go fuck himself? Or whoever. Justin no longer cared. And since when did she start championing Brian? _Does Ethan know you dream about your ex?_ she asked the morning after Justin had spent the night while Ethan was away. _I’m only wondering because you called Brian’s name last night. Four times_

_Brian_

Work had never felt like such a refuge and Babylon like such a hell. Nothing reminded him of Justin at the office, but he spent the nights at Babylon watching the door and trying to pretend that he wasn’t. If anyone noticed, no one mentioned it – probably because the balls required to do so would make it impossible to walk. He threw himself at new accounts as though they were locked doors he was trying to break through. He was confident, aggressive, ruthlessly persuasive, and meticulously prepared. He wished it made him happy. But it only made him drink more. 

He knew he was pushing things with Mikey, but he couldn’t bear spending endless evenings at home. Fucking strangers and dancing alone didn’t fill the chasm opening ever wider in his chest. The Professor was patient at first – even encouraging – but it didn’t last, not that Brian could blame him. Then along came the underwear party. He knew he was bad for Mikey; he knew he needed to push him away again. What better way than dragging him to a party he knew Mikey would hate and fucking some guy while Mikey could only stand there and watch? Problem solved. 

Tricking wasn’t as fun as it used to be when Justin was around. Getting stoned and lounging around the loft wasn’t as fun as it used to be. Neither was winning a new account. In fact, _nothing_ was as fun as it used to be. And since when did he start thinking about things in terms of fun? Ethan and Justin were certainly having fun. Brian occasionally spotted them walking hand-in-hand down Liberty Avenue, laughing and talking, which, by the way, sucked. They had the whole rest of Pittsburgh. Couldn’t they stay away from the one part that was Brian’s? 

The only good thing to come from insomnia was a fondness for the city he’d never felt before; he was always racing around, preoccupied by deadlines and daydreams. But the long nights were quiet. He watched the lights blink out in room after room in building after building. He saw people moving around and T.V.s flickering manically in the dark. Beneath him, cars stopped on red and started again on green. Cabs lined up outside clubs, their drivers laughing and smoking cigarettes. He knew there were others out there who couldn’t sleep. He wondered if Justin was one of them. 

_Justin_

Despite the occasional argument, life with Ethan was easy. Justin never doubted he’d be greeted with a kiss whenever they met. Yes, Ethan was moody in his own ways, but not like Brian whose moods seemed to alter the weather. Justin had never known what he’d come home to, and it’d interfered with the rest of his life. It’d been impossible to work when Brian was around – he was always brooding, horny or antsy to go out. It was impossible to know if Brian would find him endearing or smothering. With Brian, he’d never felt safe. With Ethan, he did. 

Passing Brian on the street sucked. He usually made some snide remark that was hard to just dismiss. Justin discovered that being pleasant and friendly was the best way to deal with his barbs. He’d smile and say, “What? I didn’t hear you,” until Brian gave up trying to antagonize them and walked away. He tried to get Ethan do the same, but it didn’t work. Ethan’s jaw always clenched, and his eyes flashed. He hadn’t actually said the words, but Justin knew Ethan hated Brian, but like everyone else, he couldn’t ignore him. But Justin could. He’d had practice. 

Sometimes Justin had a hard time coming when Ethan went down on him. At the end of the day, it turned out gentle licks and reverent kisses did not a mind-blowing orgasm make. Hand-jobs weren’t much better. Ethan treated him like an origami crane or something delicate and made out of china. Everything was slow and careful and adoring. Everything took too Goddamn long. When he jerked off, Justin sometimes remembered being pounded into a wall, thrown down on a mattress, sweat-soaked, rimmed open, sucked dry and fucked speechless. He remembered falling asleep instead of pacing for hours in agitation. 

August was hotter than usual, and Ethan’s apartment didn’t have air-conditioning. It didn’t even have decent cross ventilation. They sat on the windowsills listening to N.P.R, sucking ice cubes and fanning themselves with their copies of PIFA’s fall catalog. Ethan had dog-eared his copy, but Justin hadn’t even opened his. He hadn’t told Ethan yet that he wasn’t going back. He couldn’t afford it, and Brian sure as hell wasn’t going to support him anymore. Justin cringed at the thought of even asking him. He could practically hear Brian’s voice telling him to go fuck off back to his fiddler. 

_Brian_

The bill came mid-August. $9,000, plus $400 for books and supplies and $300 for a meal plan. He wrote the check and mailed it. He knew how Justin would react. He’d want to reject it; he might even get angry. Tough shit. He’d probably even say that he and the fiddler got along just fine and expect Brian to believe him. But Brian knew the shithole they lived in cost $650 a month. He was sure that busing tables and fiddling on a street corner could barely cover the rent, let alone food that didn’t come from boxes and cans. 

Brian liked to think he was more detective than stalker. He certainly didn’t park his car across the street and watch Justin and the fiddler through binoculars, but he had pinned down a few basic pieces of vital information: Justin’s address, the contact information for his landlord, his most frequently traveled bus routes, and his salary at the diner. Nothing terribly personal. The only thing one might call “creepy” was his monitoring of Justin’s allergy meds. The little twat had always been shit at remembering refills, so once a month, Brian had the “pharmacist” (aka Cynthia) call to remind him. 

Phone sex was an art form, and Brian was a master. Unfortunately, nobody else was. Instead of getting off, he usually got pissed off. If he scored and found someone decent, he’d lube-up and start telling a “Fucking Justin” story. He could only get as far as the rimming scene before he came. Rimming was Justin’s favorite thing to do in bed; he’d beg Brian to sit on his face and let him suck on his balls. There was nothing hotter than Justin jerking-off while he tongue-fucked Brian’s ass. The memory made Brian come his brains out every fucking time. 

He didn’t know when Justin would find out. Brian stayed home nights, anticipating the visit. He was watching “One–Eyed Jacks” when Justin arrived. Brian glanced at him, rolling his eyes at Justin’s quip about Brian being alone “for a change.” Their conversation was civil, but Brian bristled at Justin’s suggestion that he needn’t pay because they weren’t “together anymore.” What the fuck did that matter? And who’s to say they were ever “together”? He was disappointed that Justin still needed instructions on what it means to be a man. He didn’t cry when Justin left, but only just barely. 

_Justin_

Brian barely looked at him. Fucking asshole. Justin could only watch his profile bathed in the light of the T.V. _Damn you, look at me!_ he wanted to shout, but on the way back to Ethan’s, toting the cumbersome boxes that contained his computer, he acknowledged that he was glad. Brian rarely looked at him at the diner, but when he did, his expression was indifferent, bordering on scornful. Justin could deal with it in public, but something would’ve broken inside him if Brian gave him the same look at the loft – in the place that’d once been their home. 

Ethan was disdainful of the computer, and they got in a fight about it. Ethan was a traditionalist and aspiring Luddite. _What’s wrong with paper and pencils?_ he demanded, and Justin replied that as long as he was creating his own work from his own imagination, the medium was unimportant. Finally, Ethan retreated to his violin, and Justin left on the pretense of buying some wine when really all he wanted was to escape. He’d thought Brian had too many expectations! In Ethan’s mind, Justin had to be a tortured, starving bohemian or he wasn’t credible as a “real” artist. 

Ethan couldn’t say the word “cock.” Instead of “suck my cock,” he said “I want to be in that beautiful mouth of yours.” Instead of saying “fuck me,” he said “let’s make love.” And it freaked him out when Justin talked dirty or fucked him roughly. For hours afterward, he’d be quiet, sad and withdrawn. “Did Brian teach you that?” he asked once, “because if so, I don’t want you doing it. I’m not a mindless fuck machine who doesn’t give a shit about you. I love you.” _So did Brian_ , Justin wanted to say, _in his own Brian-like way_. 

Everyone made it clear they thought he’d made the right choice dumping Brian. It made Justin wonder if they were really Brian’s friends; in fact it made him wonder if, other than Mikey, anyone even liked Brian. It made Justin sad. Brian had insisted Justin not tell anyone about his having paid tuition, so nobody knew that he was the only reason Justin was still in school. Brian played the asshole role so convincingly; no one thought to question its reality, hence nobody knew the truth. Justin did, but sometimes, when missing Brian hurt too much, he wished he didn’t. 


	3. Chapter 3

_Brian_

Even he knew he was drinking too much; he didn’t need Mikey and the boys’ oblique comments and concerned glances. Besides, what the fuck business was it of theirs? He could drink his liver to the size of a squishy, pock-marked basketball if he so fucking chose. Only one person could stop him, and he didn’t know, and probably if he did, he wouldn’t give a shit. At least he better not. Justin should know by now that he can’t waste time trying to bind other people’s self-inflicted wounds. The only thing more pathetic than a victim is an enabler.

He also knew he was doing too much coke. He’d all but stopped using it when Justin was around; he hadn’t liked it when Brian got high, and the dislike increased after that fucking party at The Sap’s house. Brian could imagine what might’ve happened that night, but he didn’t want to. It made him want to grab the motherfucker by his cheesy gold chains and choke him. Which was another reason he should cut back on the coke. It made him jittery and _angry_ at the universe – a universe that’d given him Sunshine only to snatch him away again.

With Justin gone, the loft seemed huge; Brian had expected an echo when he’d called Justin’s name before he found Justin’s stuff gone. Even his toothbrush. (Why the fuck did he have to take his Goddamn toothbrush? Couldn’t he have bought a new one? He wasn’t _that_ poor . . . yet. The missing toothbrush wasn’t just a “good-bye,” it was a “fuck you.”) To fill the unwanted space, Brian had gone on a buying-spree, hence the van der Rohe table and Barcelona chair, on which, the same day it arrived, Brian fucked the living shit out of a trick.

He danced alone every night. Mikey was where he should be – at home with the Professor, and Emmett and Ted were . . . God, he didn’t want to go there; the mental images would scar him for life. Slowly, but surely, it began to dawn on him that other than Mikey and the boys – and Lindsay, but she didn’t count when it came to Babylon – he had no friends. Tricks didn’t count. Brian had a strict policy against fucking friends, and he fucked tricks, so therefore, according to basic Socratic logic, they weren’t friends. He was lonely – desperately lonely.

_Justin_

Ethan loved going to poetry slams at coffee shops, “post-modern experimental music” concerts, boring movies with subtitles, and dirt-cheap restaurants serving meat of dubious parentage. Sometimes Justin had fun, but often he didn’t. It made him feel a weird kind of guilt. If he was a “real” artist, shouldn’t he like that stuff? Shouldn’t he like songs like Scott Walker’s “Rosary” which seemed to play in the background of every party Ethan dragged him to? _Scrape a little pattern/on a sty/I kiss holes for the bullets_. What the fuck did that mean? Sometimes he missed the unpretentious thumpa-thumpa of Babylon.

As time passed, Justin dreamed more and more often about Brian, and they weren’t always wet dreams. Sometimes Brian was a teacher at St. James; sometimes he was the nude Justin was sketching in his drawing class; sometimes he was even a cook at the diner. Most disturbing were the dreams in which Ethan slowly morphed into Brian – suddenly Ethan would have Brian’s voice or his hands or his ass . . . or his cock. Justin’s reaction was always overpowering relief. He woke beside Ethan feeling guilty. It’d been two months – shouldn’t the longing have gone away by now?

Ethan wanted him to read Umberto Eco – “you’ll love him,” he gushed. “He’s a semiotician!” (Whatever the fuck that meant.) Justin tried; he really did. He gave it his best effort, but all he really wanted to read were comic books . . . and porn, not that porn had a great deal of text involved and certainly no literary value, but at least the plots were easy to follow. Every day he moved the bookmark a little closer to the end of Ethan’s worn copy of _Foucault’s Pendulum_ , and dodged Ethan’s attempts to discuss it by jumping his bones.

Once he ran into Brian when he was alone. They stared at each other. Finally, Brian broke the awkward silence. “Doing okay?” he asked. Justin tried to smile, but he and Ethan had just had a fight, and he felt like shit because it’d been his fault. So he just shrugged. Brian’s expression darkened. “What’s wrong?” he asked in a low voice. Justin quickly assured him that everything was fine; it’s just that he was stressed over an assignment. Brian reached out as though to touch Justin’s cheek but then dropped his hand. “Take care,” he said and walked away.

_Brian_

Deb was right: Gus was beginning to look more like him every day – especially his eyes, which was disturbing because they looked curious but vulnerable at the same time. Brian wondered if that’s how people saw him, or had he stuffed both his curiosity and vulnerability so far down the drain of his psyche that no one could see them. He hoped so. Except Mikey, of course, but then Mikey had always been the exception. Once, he’d thought that Justin too was on the edge of discovering the realty behind the mask. Maybe he’d succeeded, and that’d been the problem.

Never let it be said that Brian didn’t appreciate talent – even when said talented person had stolen his sunshine. Ethan often played near a park; sometimes Brian watched him from the shadows, standing far enough from the lamps so the light wouldn’t catch in the folds of his leather coat. Ethan was good. He was going places. Brian knew a future success story when he saw it. He saw the same thing in Justin. They’d go places together – if they had the resources. When a stranger passed, Brian would give him a fifty-dollar bill to drop in Ethan’s violin case.

The Center was a joke; it made Brian embarrassed to be gay. Just because he fucked men didn’t mean he wanted to hold hands with sexually-frustrated dorks singing “Kum Ba Yah.” So, when Lindsay pleaded for his help with a “carnival” to raise money for a gay youth homeless shelter, his first reaction was a vehement “no.” But then he remembered he’d been coveting a new car. He’d come to hate the Jeep – not only did it remind him of better days, it reminded him of Justin. Maybe, just maybe, he and the Center could reach a mutually beneficial agreement. 

He wanted to ask Justin if the poster he’d created for “Carnivale” was an unconscious tribute to the eroticism he’d taught him – or whether, perhaps, the man he’d created was Brian himself, masked and hidden, permitting Justin to pretend otherwise. Regardless, the guy certainly wasn’t the fiddler. Brian beckoned Justin, his cock swelling when their elbows brushed. Justin licked his lips, a sign of arousal Brian knew well. It would be so easy – and so wrong. He wouldn’t be the reason Justin left his boyfriend – he wouldn’t be a source of guilt. Thank God Mikey walked in when he did.

_Justin_

Why had he said he’d come to the loft to show Brian the poster? Wasn’t occasionally finding themselves alone in the diner’s bathroom bad enough? What the fuck was Brian playing at? He was _not_ going to cheat on Ethan. He’d cheated on Brian and felt shitty about it for ages. Been there, done that, never doing it again. But then there Brian was, barefoot and talking about “entering at your own risk” and “preparing to be fucked.” Not all that long ago, Justin had done just that. _I want you to always remember this_. Sometimes Justin wished he didn’t.

Long ago, Brian must’ve perfected the art of smelling amazing, just the right mixture of soap, sweat, a hint of masculine cologne and, well, something Justin could only think of as Essence of Brian. Justin could’ve survived the encounter without a hard-on if Brian had let him stay by the door instead of telling him to come closer. He tried to breathe through his mouth, but his body betrayed him, inhaling every increasingly-deep breath through his nose. Brian smelled like sex, like danger, like blue, windy, wide-open spaces so unlike the cramped apartment Justin lived in, so unlike his current life.

He left the party, left Ethan, left the “student ghetto” and took the bus to Liberty Ave. He tried not to think about what he was doing – or what it might mean. All he knew is that he wanted to see men bathed in neon, writhing to the animalistic beat of dance music. He wanted to be surrounded by queers and smell the scent of men’s sweat. He wasn’t there to touch, just look. But not for _him_. Never again for _him_. But then there _he_ was, in his element like a beautiful, but deadly, panther in a perilous jungle.

Seeing Brian blithely turn away reminded Justin why he’d left. He grabbed the express bus, but when he walked in the apartment, it was empty. Figures the one time Justin desperately needed Ethan, Ethan wasn’t there. Justin needed to come; he couldn’t stop imagining Brian, his head thrown back, his face beatific with pleasure. He locked the bathroom, took off his jeans and sat on the edge of the tub. His too-soon orgasm dropped him to the floor, and he fell asleep on the bathmat, waking groggy and confused when Ethan knocked on the door, asking if he was okay.

_Brian_

Brian is rarely surprised, but he was when Justin appeared at Carnivale. He wanted to grab Justin, spin him around and kiss him. Instead he smiled and asked where “Ian” was. His smile widened when Justin laughed. But what would’ve happened next, Brian would never know. The talented Mr. Butthole Bingo showed up, and Brian saw Justin’s smile falter, but he wouldn’t spare Justin the twinge of discomfort by shrugging off the guy’s hand. After all, that afternoon Justin had made Brian watch him walk away, arm-in-arm with the fiddler after declining the tickets Brian offered them. Touché, Sunshine. Tou-fucking-ché.

“Boyfriend replacement?” _Really?_ But Mikey just rolled his eyes when Brian insisted he’d never had a boyfriend, so there was nothing – and no one – to replace. Nope, he’d bought the Vette because it appealed both to the little boy who’d loved to play with cars, and the grown man who loved to turn heads. The only problem was that he had no one to share it with except the occasional trick he picked up outside the baths. There was no one to run away with – and no one to keep him from driving off the road into a bridge abutment.

He’d got so into the weird habit of jerking off in the Vette that he was having trouble coming anywhere else. The Vette didn’t remind him of Justin. Unlike the Jeep, Justin had never blown him in the Vette, or even kissed him for that matter. The bed was survivable because Justin was far from the only person who Brian had fucked there, but the couch was another story. And forget the shower. It used to be Brian’s jerk off haven, but now it was haunted by Justin’s urgent pleas, the echo of his moans mingled with the falling water.

Once, just once, Brian actually gagged on his loneliness – well, more precisely a mixture of loneliness and too much Beam. He’d forgotten he’d left the lights on, so when he returned to the loft after a night alone at Babylon, he’d been surprised and then, for the stab of a second, blindingly happy, but when he called out “Sunshine?” nothing but silence answered him. A sickening mixture of Beam, bile, and turkey-on-rye-no-mayo flooded his mouth. He spat in the sink and punched a dent in the refrigerator. Justin had been gone for four months. When would the pain go away?


	4. Chapter 4

_Justin_

Ethan was pleased with the money he was making. He got so many fifty-dollar bills that he pissed off the coffee shops; they told him they’d no longer break anything larger than a twenty. “You’ve got a sugar daddy,” Justin teased him, and Ethan rolled his eyes. But Justin wasn’t joking. Ethan really did have a “sugar daddy,” and Justin was pretty sure who. What was Brian doing? Was he waiting to reveal himself at just the right moment to embarrass them both? In how many ways would Justin have to tell him to fuck off before he actually did?

He never worked Sundays, but Deb was in a pinch. It was raining, so he had his hood on when he arrived. He heard Brian before he saw him. He’d known Brian would be there; Sundays were Family Brunch Day. He remembered how the two of them used to drag themselves to the diner still smelling of sex, and prop each other up as they’d shared a huge stack of pancakes. When he came by to take everyone’s order, Brian didn’t look up from his crossword. He didn’t even look up when Justin threw the wadded fifty-dollar bill at him.

He’d never appreciated just how fucking _loud_ a violin could be – especially when Ethan was trying to master Viotti’s Concerto No. 22 in A minor. No wonder their neighbors hated their guts! When Justin snappishly suggested the school had practice rooms for a reason, Ethan completely lost his shit. Justin had gone to stay with Daphne until things blew over and was appalled when, after the first couple days, he actually contemplated going to a bathhouse! God, what wouldn’t he give for a good old-fashion anonymous fuck? And if Brian happened to be there, well . . . so what?

Because the universe was a smartass, Brian was, in fact, there. He was fucking some guy against a wall, so all Justin could see was his back. He’d promised himself if he went to the baths, he’d only look. Tricking was cheating, but jerking off was another story. Brian’s shoulders shone with sweat, and his hair clung to his neck. He was fucking the guy with slow, deep thrusts, the muscles in his ass flexing beneath his skin. Justin retreated to the shadows and watched. He remembered getting fucked like that. He didn’t bottom with Ethan, and he missed it.

_Brian_

Brian wasn’t pissed off, he was just annoyed. Hadn’t being with him taught Justin anything? Don’t cut off your fucking nose to spite your face. He didn’t look at Justin once, but he’d left the crumpled fifty as a tip. Outside, Lindsay handed Gus to him. It’d stopped raining, but probably only for a while. “What was that all about?” she asked, and Brian shrugged. Lindsay sighed. “Don’t you think it’s time to let go?” she asked gently. Brian looked up and squinted at the watery sun. “Probably,” he replied. Lindsay rested her head against his arm. It felt nice.

He’d laid down the law: Emmett and Ted could do unthinkable things in the privacy of their home, but when they were with him, they had to keep their hands to themselves. Especially at the gym where Brian couldn’t self-anesthetize. He didn’t understand them at all; their overnight change from friends to lovers grossed him out in the same way incest did. One shouldn’t shit where one ate – or fuck, for that matter. Imagine what would’ve happened if he and Mikey had got together? When they broke up, Brian would’ve lost _everything_. Emmett and Ted were headed for a cliff.

Claire was a cunt. It was embarrassing when she barged into his office with her brat in tow. Thankfully, Vance excused himself. Brian stared at her balefully. It was sad, really. He and Claire could’ve grown up as allies, united against their parents, but they hadn’t. Instead, they’d grown up competing for the measly scraps of affection their parents occasionally (and often accidentally) tossed in their direction. They’d torn each other to shreds like dogs in a pit. They’d each helped their parents make the other feel unloved – and, even worse, unlovable. Now they were both reaping what they’d sown.

There were two detectives. One was an asshole, the other Brian’s best buddy in the whole wide world. How clichéd could things get? He signed the Miranda form, waived his right to a lawyer, and answered all their humiliating questions. No, he hadn’t forced his nephew to blow him. No, he hadn’t threatened to kill the little shit if he told anyone. No, he didn’t want a Coke, fuck you very much. When he returned home after giving his sweet sister and his dear, dear mom a piece of his mind, he called Justin, and hung up when he answered.

_Justin_

He knew it was Brian; he’d never bothered to erase Brian’s number. Something was wrong. It’d been four months, and Brian hadn’t called him once, not even a drunk dial. He wanted to go to the loft or at least return the call, but instead he told Ethan to take his phone and not return it, even if he begged. Ethan looked wary of the request but did it anyway. He even left to visit a friend. Justin was too agitated to draw, so he sat in the dark wondering what was happening on the other side of the city.

The news spread like a virulent flu. Queers were hopeless gossips – especially if the rumors involved Brian Kinney. The stud of Liberty Ave had been arrested for forcing his twelve year-old nephew to suck his cock. Did it really surprise anyone? After all, Kinney had fucked all the grown-ups in western Pennsylvania, no wonder he’d started hanging around playgrounds. Justin asked Deb if he could go home early. He was sure he’d kill her customers if he stayed. She nodded sympathetically and patted his arm. “Go home to Ethan,” she said gently. “Not until I visit the arcade,” he replied.

Could that plain-looking woman with bruise-colored eyes really be Brian’s sister? Claire smelled of drugstore perfume and bitterness. Justin didn’t like to hate – especially when he harbored enough hatred for Hobbs – but he hated Claire on sight. He would’ve hated her son too if John wasn’t a kid. Thankfully, Deb and Carl were with him or he might’ve said something he’d regret. When he closed his hand around the cowry shell bracelet, he breathed a sigh of relief. “You take it to him,” Deb said when Justin tried to give it to her. “He needs to know you still care.”

The first time he’d noticed it, Justin had been oddly shocked by the tenderness of Brian’s wrists. The soft, pale skin cradled blue-blooded veins like canyons cradle their rivers. His favorite drawing depicted Brian’s hands, palms up, his vulnerable wrists offered to be bound. Looking at it never failed to make Justin shiver around a sudden memory of Brian’s occasional surrenders. Was it any surprise that, after he tied the bracelet around Brian’s wrist, he would’ve gone to bed with him if Brian had just asked? Thankfully, for both of them, Brian didn’t, and Justin went home to fuck Ethan.

_Brian_

Since he left, Justin had shown him nothing but wary enmity, but his gaze as he tied the bracelet was wondering as he searched Brian’s face for. . .for what? What was Justin looking for? Brian thought he knew, but he wasn’t sure, which meant that deep down Justin didn’t really want whatever it was he thought he might. Time to remind him of the choice he’d made. “Shouldn’t you get back to your boyfriend?” he asked and watched reality return to Justin’s eyes, but the hardness that’d lingered there for so long was gone. Brian hoped it never returned.

Lindsay said it half-jokingly, but he’d still been angry at her. _Now that you’ve had the experience of falling in love, maybe you can fall in love with someone else_. Yeah, right. Falling in love had turned out oh _so_ well. On a good day, he felt like someone was removing his intestines with a fork while he watched. What a blast! Turns out intestines are Pepto-Bismol pink. Who knew? He told her exactly where she could shove her shitty suggestion, and her eyes got all watery. _Bri_ , she said. _Please. It makes me so sad_. Thankfully, she didn’t elaborate.

At first it seemed like Brian’s imagination, but then Mikey confirmed his suspicions. Justin was looking at him at the diner, and because Justin was Justin, he sucked at feigning nonchalance when caught. His blush reached from his hairline to the collar of his shirt. Interesting. But irrelevant. Justin could look, but he was _never_ going to touch. Never again. Evolution requires avoiding things that almost kill you. Almost get mauled by a lion? Avoid lions. Almost get stung by a jellyfish? Avoid jellyfish. Almost die of a broken heart? Avoid the person who broke it like the motherfucking plague.

Ah, true love. So Ian gave up his chance at fame because the breeders wanted him to play their little games. Justin is beaming; Deb is teary-eyed, and Mel is trying to rub it in. As though there was something to rub in. If Justin ever did something similar, Brian would hunt him down and slap some sense into him. Romance didn’t get one’s name in the papers. Romance didn’t sell C.D.s or paintings. _You’d never do that_ , Mel said caustically, and Brian told her she was right. Except she wasn’t, and the realization terrified the shit out of him.

_Justin_

When Ethan was on stage, Justin was sure he loved him. The commitment, the passion, the way Ethan surrendered to his music! And it was exciting to be a part of it. _You’re my muse_ , Ethan had told him. It’d made Justin wonder if he, too, had a muse. The idea actually sounded a little corny, but then that’s what romance is about – letting yourself be corny. He wished the situation was mutual and that Ethan was his muse. But he wasn’t, and the fact that Brian still was . . . well, it was disturbing to say the least.

He needed to quit the diner. He knew that. He told Ethan he stayed because the money was good, but they both knew neither money nor the free sandwiches and day-old lemon bars had anything to do with it. It was about Brian. It was about cutting that final tie. Once, early on, Justin had tried to quit. He and Ethan had argued, and he’d decided to give his notice the following morning. That night, he dreamed that Brian died alone in a car accident. Hours later, Justin was still shaking. When Deb offered him extra hours, he took them. 

Ethan claimed he suffered from Stockholm Syndrome – that Brian had abused him so terribly and undermined his self-worth so drastically that Justin was unable to imagine his life without Brian in it. Justin would’ve rolled his eyes except that Ethan was right: he _couldn’t_ imagine his life without Brian in it. He wanted to share Brian’s successes at work, no matter how tangentially. He wanted to see Brian play with Gus and watch their relationship grow. He wanted to smile to himself when Brian teased Michael. It wasn’t a sexual thing. It wasn’t cheating. It was just about being whole.

Ethan’s rejection of the agency contract was an amazing gift. An unambiguous declaration of devotion! That was it. Ethan was his lover. Brian was history. Justin would be stupid to jeopardize his future with lingering what-ifs. He didn’t try to quiet Deb when she announced to the whole diner that Ethan had turned down fame out of love for “our Sunshine.” Everyone looked at Brian who merely shrugged and said someone should tell Ethan there’s “nothing noble about being poor.” Justin smiled at him. He was grateful for the reminder of what a selfish, shallow piece of shit Brian was.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a short part because it stands alone in terms of, not only the whole Ethan thing, but of Brian and Justin's relationship overall. Imo, this is the single meanest, shittiest thing that Brian did (which is saying something). It wasn't easy trying to make sense of how Brian could be so damn _evil_ after Justin had basically kept him out of jail. This was the best explanation I could come up with. But now I've made my task even harder. Why doesn't Justin hate him? Why would he ever go back to someone who's capable of treating him like that? How am I going to be able to make sense of their reunion without having to portray Justin as self-hating or delusional? Maybe Ethan had a point with his Stockholm Syndrome remark. I'd love to hear what you guys think of this part. Please be candid. After reading your comments, I might decide to revise it . . .
> 
> . . . also a huge standing-ovation is due to Gale Harold for his amazing talent. I watched that damn scene in the backroom when Brian calls Justin "a piece of blond boy ass" at least a dozen times. It's so vicious and cruel, but Gale saves Brian's ass from our everlasting hatred with just a wordless gesture. Gale can turn Brian from an irredeemable asshole into a broken, conflicted human being with nothing but a couple seconds and a sniffle. It makes me realize how close to the line Cowlip came regarding Brian - if they didn't have such an incredibly talented actor, the audience could've ended up loathing Brian. If that'd happened, what are the chances the show would've made it past its first season?

_Brian_

Not bad. If being a pathetic sap was an Olympic event, Ian would’ve taken home the gold. Justin was positively glowing. Brian couldn’t decide who he loathed more – the fiddler, Justin or himself. Because he was going to wreck everything, show Justin how easy it is to break a promise. The fiddler didn’t play street corners every night in zero degrees because he thought that was all he deserved. He played because he was good and knew it. He played because he was ambitious. He played because he wanted to be famous. All he needed was a little itty-bitty nudge.

Justin was on Cloud Nine. He was always smiling, bantering playfully with customers and happily humming Bach or who-the-fuck-ever. Brian wanted to tear Justin’s heart out of his chest, crush it in his fist and lick the blood off his fingers. He started avoiding the diner, but suddenly Justin and Ethan were everywhere. Laughing, kissing, holding hands, so obviously in love. When Brian smiled icily, the fiddler smiled back. Brian was no longer a threat. Ethan had won Justin’s love, and Justin was clearly exactly that – in love. God, Brian hated them both with a blinding passion.

He should’ve gone home after leaving the fiddler with his little poison pill about poverty and nobility, but he didn’t. If he had, the night would’ve dragged itself around the loft like a wounded animal with a broken back. Either he’d just cemented Justin and Ethan’s relationship by strengthening Ethan’s resolve, or he’d planted the bomb that would eventually destroy it. If the former, then Justin was really and truly gone. If the latter, then Brian was a certifiable piece of human garbage. So he went to Babylon. If Ethan had followed his advice, it’d be the first place Justin would come looking for him. 

To his credit, Ethan obviously weighed the matter carefully, but eventually Justin appeared in the backroom telling Brian that Ethan had signed the contract and Brian should’ve kept his “big fucking mouth shut.” God, how Brian _loved_ the ballsy twat! But he held his ground like a prizefighter and threw the knockout punch: _You expect him to sacrifice his career for a piece of blond boy ass?_ The blow struck its mark. As Justin walked away, Brian spat out blood and teeth while the referee held up his arm and the crowd cheered. He’d never hated himself more.

_Justin_

He never thought Brian could look ugly, but he did. Haggard, strung-out, surviving on coffee, bile and Beam. There was only one word to describe him: pathetic. For the first time Justin regretted their relationship; it was that and not sentimentality that drove him to the diner’s bathroom to cry angrily behind the locked door. Ever since Deb had announced that Ethan refused to sign the contract, Brian grew uglier every day. The smell of something close to viciousness followed him around like the scent of the cigarettes he was constantly smoking. His eyes weren’t just angry. They were mean.

The wine was the same his parents brought to parties as a thank-you gift – in other words, expensive as hell. “It’s because you’re worth it,” Ethan said. Justin’s eyes narrowed. Something was up. The candles, the fancy cheeses, the wine. It all made sense when Ethan told him he was accepting the contract. “Don’t worry,” he said. “We’ll have secret rendezvouses and torrid encounters.” It sounded okay when he put it like that, even exciting, but then when Justin asked why he’d changed his mind, Ethan spoke the all-too-familiar words: _There’s nothing noble about being poor._ Suddenly Justin couldn’t breathe.

What had he done to deserve this? After all, he’d saved Brian’s ass when his nephew accused him of molestation. What had he done to make Brian hate him _so_ much? Asshole. Fucking asshole. All that bullshit about “I hope you find what you’re looking for.” Why? So he could tear it to shreds? For someone who’d insisted they weren’t a couple, Brian was behaving like a fucking jilted bride. Justin looked at his watch. Eleven-thirty. If he took a cab, he could be at Babylon by midnight. He wouldn’t have to search for Brian. He’d be in the backroom.

He’d only had enough money for one-way. Part of him thought he and Brian would argue and then, as he always did, Brian would ask if he needed anything, and Justin would ask for cab fare. But things didn’t go like that. Justin couldn’t stop crying as he walked blindly in the general direction of PIFA. Piece of blond boy ass? So that was all he was to Brian – all he’d ever been? A novelty fuck? His face was wet with tears although it might as well be blood. Brian had punched him in the face. For the last time.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who commented on the last part; your comments helped me write this part. I've been writing like a fiend and haven't had a chance to reply yet, but I will asap.

_Brian_

Jesus, hadn’t he taught Justin anything? Justin should’ve kicked _both_ him and Ian to the curb, but no. Now there was a ring. A fucking ring made from metal so cheap it probably left a gray circle when Justin took it off. Or considering Justin’s many allergies, a rash. Brian wanted to bite it off like what’s-its-face did to what’s-his-name in that book he’d read in high school. It would be too messy though, so he settled for a sarcastic remark that Justin effortlessly swatted aside. His hair was getting long. Brian badly wanted to run his fingers through it.

Everyone had noticed it, but no one remarked on it – at least not in Brian’s presence. Smart. Brian would’ve sprayed their faces with vitriol so acidic it would require a Hazmat team to clean up. A Goddamn ring! It was already tarnished, which made it look even trashier than it had when it was new. Justin was being a fucking breeder – a little girl who wanted an engagement ring before she put out. Except Justin had already put out and then some. Brian had the memories to prove it. God, that motherfucking ring! Brian couldn’t keep his eyes off it. 

What’d he expected? That he’d win Justin back by calling him worthless? He’d kicked Justin around, but never like that. He could apologize, but what would he say? Sorry, it’s just that I’m hopelessly fucked up? My mommy was mean? My “family” moved every year when I was a kid? I never had a friend until I met Mikey, who I abuse almost as much as I do you? I tried to be straight and failed? Catholicism screwed with my head? My deviated septum was the only thing my daddy gave me for Christmas one year? Bull-fucking-shit. All of it.

He was rapidly developing an addiction to sleeping pills. The nights were unbearable, but he’d rather risk another chemical dependency than let a trick spend the night. He’d let it happen once and woke up thinking, for a second, that Justin had come home only to find a dark-haired head on the pillow beside his. His stomach had actually rolled over, and it wasn’t due to his perpetual hangover. Never again. It’d been worse than being alone, worse even than lying there sleepless mulling over his mistakes until, like sandstone, they eventually crumbled into a thousand grains of unendurable regret.

_Justin_

He wasn’t pleased, but he decided to give the secret affair a chance. After all, Ethan loved him; the ring was unambiguous proof. Ethan didn’t have much money, but the little he did, he’d spent on their relationship. Justin didn’t like hiding, but he knew Ethan would never intentionally hurt him the way Brian had. It was more than clear that he – himself and not just his body – was important to Ethan. He’d wanted to hunt Brian down and tear his balls off when Justin told him about the “piece of blond boy ass.” Unforgivable, he’d called it. Justin agreed. 

Brian instantly spotted the ring and predictably mocked it. The meanness that had softened to something that almost resembled regret returned to his eyes. Justin avoided him as much as possible; he had something special, and he wouldn’t let Brian piss all over it – again. He’d given Brian a chance at friendship when he’d helped save him from jail, and Brian had stomped and then spat on it. Brian was as cruel as he was beautiful, if not more so. If Justin had had any hesitations about staying with Ethan after he’d signed the contract, Brian had snuffed them out.

It didn’t surprise Ethan that Brian was representing Stockwell. Justin wished it didn’t surprise him either. How low was Brian willing to stoop? Was there any line he wouldn’t cross? He could virtually feel Deb start to hate Brian. He wanted to tell her to stop; not for Brian’s sake, but for his. The more she ranted and raged, the more defensive Justin got, and that was definitely _not_ something he wanted to feel – sympathy for Brian. But when Deb turned her back, Justin would glimpse something in Brian’s eyes that might be pain, and it made his heart hurt. 

He wished he could hate Brian; even more he wished he could forget him, or, at the very least, not care what he thought about anything, but then Lindsay would bring Gus to the diner and hand him to Brian, and Brian would suddenly morph into a human being. His voice was soft as he held Gus in his arms protectively as though his baby was an antique vase, and Justin would remember the bloody scarf and the care with which Brian had entered him, the way Brian had rested his hand just as gently and protectively on his hip.

_Brian_

Stockwell’s campaign was a challenge. Plain and simple. And maybe, to an extent, Brian could relate to him, man to man. There weren’t many people Brian respected, and the fact he respected a breeder was a novel experience, one worth exploring. But he wasn’t blind to the damage he was doing to his relationship with Deb, and he was even less blind to the looks of disgust Justin sometimes threw his way. Fuck ‘em. Business was business. There’s nothing noble about being poor – or principled for that matter. Nobility came from busting your ass, from not giving a flying fuck.

When he wasn’t Xanaxed to the gills, he dreamed about Justin. He dreamed of doing the right things – of buying those roses, of going to Vermont, of holding him instead of just fucking him, of saying “Please don’t leave me. I want you. I need you. I love you.” He dreamed of rings and candlelight and a thousand other stupid fucking things. And then he woke committed more than ever to the task of forgetting. There must be something stronger than Ambien and Valium. His doctor was a conscientious bastard, but maybe someone less professional would prescribe him some Oxycontin. 

He may be an asshole, but he wasn’t stupid. He wasn’t as deluded about himself as everyone thought he was. He knew that, at least half the time, he didn’t practice what he preached, that he _couldn’t_. He’d told Mikey to get out of Pittsburgh, but he, himself, didn’t have the balls to be second best. He’d mocked Justin for crying over his dad when he’d been crying over _his_ for years. He’d told everyone he had no regrets. He was completely full of shit. He regretted almost everything he’d ever done – but most of all letting Sunshine slip away.

Justin looked sad and defeated. Brian sat down next to him. It was the first time they’d been alone since that night in the backroom. Something was wrong, and Brian could guess what. Trouble in paradise. He almost didn’t go over; he almost walked away, but he was incapable of not doing something stupid where Justin was concerned. Of course, Justin turned him down when Brian asked if he could buy him another drink; of course he’d ignored the snide “fiancé” comment, but when Brian said “see ya,” he meant it. Justin needed to know he’d _never_ be all alone.

_Justin_

He’d never seen Ethan look happier, and then Justin saw her. An interviewer. That explained it, and it also explained the ease with which “this is Justin, my cousin, and his girlfriend, Daphne” slipped off Ethan’s tongue. The incident made Justin’s brain itch, and then Daph wouldn’t shut up about it. She even had the gall to mention Brian as a positive example of a boyfriend. Jesus Christ. “Brian didn't have his entire future career at stake,” he replied. “So Ethan’s career trumps your relationship?” she said. “And there I was thinking it was all about the romance. Silly me.”

Was this how it was going to be? Secrecy, lying, ducking behind bushes? Ethan assured him it was only for a while, that once he was famous, he’d buy them a farmhouse with a studio and a practice room. How romantic. How easy to say. And how long would that take? Justin was upset they’d be apart for one stupid night; how was he going to deal with entire world tours? Wasn’t this supposed to be a _real_ relationship? It was starting to feel as big a charade as the one he’d had with Brian but without the mind-blowing sex.

The drive was the longest he’d ever made on his own. Christ, Pennsylvania was one big-ass state! But the excitement kept him going. Ethan’s first professional concert! Justin was only sad they couldn’t share the moment together, side-by-side. He’d have to content himself with just being there, being the secret but supportive muse. He felt _needed_. Brian had never made him feel needed – except, that is, when he was unable to “do any better” at Babylon. Everything about him had annoyed Brian – his music, his T.V. shows, his cooking, his stuff, his occasional snoring. His very presence had annoyed Brian.

He was an expert at whispered invitations – he’d watched Brian do it a million times. Even from a distance, he could tell Ethan was hooking-up with that guy. The drive back to Pittsburgh was endless and the thought of going to their apartment unbearable, so he went to Woody’s and, of course, Brian was there. Brian sat down beside him, offered to buy him a drink, and then proceeded to mock him in a soft, intimate voice. Motherfucker. “Well, luckily you have this,” he said, touching Justin’s ring. With nothing but those five words, Brian loosed the snake into Eden.

_Brian_

Justin wasn’t his any longer; nonetheless Brian was going to keep trying to make him a man. Rings were a crutch. “Hey, don’t worry, we’ve got rings.” Whatever. Men also have dicks and dicks trump rings any day. A ring isn’t an unbreakable promise. It’s a piece of metal. Justin needed to understand that or he was going to get hurt, and despite appearances, Brian didn’t want Justin to hurt – at least not too much. Maybe a little. Okay, yeah, a little. But not so much that his heart broke like Brian’s had. He wouldn’t wish that pain on anyone.

Fucking Theodore. Fucking Emmett. Fucking loyalty. Fucking friendship. Now he was going to have to figure out how to divert Stockwell’s attention from Ted’s Goddamn stupid website. He’d never let on, but he’d do anything to keep the asshole out of jail. It was going to take some careful maneuvering though. He was going to have to use a scalpel instead of his customary chainsaw. He’d succeed. He always did when it came to Stockwell, but then Ted would thank him, probably in public, and Brian would have to slap him in front of everybody, perhaps even Justin. Goddamn it.

Justin was wearing the same clothes he had the day before. Clearly, his little experiment with romance was going south. Glee was an inappropriate emotion, but that was Brian in a nutshell. Inappropriate. He popped a ketchup-laden French fry in his mouth and grinned. Justin glared at him. And then Theodore came in, just like Brian knew he would. His thank-you was moving and personal, which was why Brian had to say something shitty; couldn’t the asshole just say “thanks” instead of getting all goopy? He watched Ted deflate and hated himself. Justin turned his back and shook his head. 

He was fucking Justin again. Granted it wasn’t with his cock, but it was mind-blowing nonetheless. A good old fashion eye-fuck. It was a novel experience. Brian had never given enough of a shit about anyone to want to expose himself that way – a naked gaze of humbling desire. But Justin’s expression was equally wide open and equally naked. The moment their eyes locked, Justin sped up, and all Brian could think of was the night Justin had fucked _him_. It’d been so different from the way Brian fucked, slow and thorough. Mr. Butthole Bingo was one fucking lucky motherfucker.

_Justin_

Brian had damaged him. It was the only explanation for his knee-jerk suspicion. Ethan had only talked with that guy. God, he felt like such a shithead for accusing Ethan of something Justin knew he’d never do. Their relationship was monogamous, and it meant too much to Ethan to blithely jeopardize it. Hell, he’d almost turned down that contract for Justin’s sake – for the sake of their love. And what about his promise of a farmhouse? You don’t make promises like that and then break them at the first opportunity. Brian was the cause of his distrust, his perilous cynicism.

The guy looked expectant, and Ethan looked like he’d seen a ghost. The color drained from his face as though he had a leak somewhere. There were roses, which, combined with gas, must’ve cost the equivalent of a fortune to a student. He looked hopeful. He looked like his sudden appearance at their door would be a welcome sight. He had the expression of someone who’d had promises made to him. You don’t drive 204 miles if you think the person you’re going to see is in a relationship, and you certainly don’t bring with you a million fucking roses.

His hands were still bloody when he arrived at Babylon. The cuts stung when the water hit them, but no wound could ever hurt as much as the pain of betrayal – of being lied to. It hurt more than Brian’s meaningless fucks ever had. Turned out Ethan’s Achilles’ heel was drooling admirers. Justin had been one; the guy who’d driven all the way from Harrisburg after a night of “love making” was clearly one too. Justin went to the dance floor and let the music – dance music not a fucking concerto – move through his body. 

He hadn’t come there with the intention of fucking anyone, but then there was the guy Brian had fucked at Carnivale. One word and they were headed for the backroom. The thought of fucking a man Brian had also fucked turned him on beyond belief. He couldn’t get the condom on fast enough. He closed his eyes as he pushed in – it felt so good, so right, so meaningless. Then he felt it: Brian’s presence. Justin opened his eyes and turned his head. Sure enough, there he was, his eyes full of want, full of need. Justin couldn’t look away. Nor did he want to.

 


	7. Chapter 7

_Brian_

Brian rarely came twice during a single blowjob – in fact, the few times he had was with Justin, who gave the best blowjob he’d ever had – but he came twice that night, and not because the guy blowing him was particularly good. It was all Justin, the parted lips, the heavy-lidded eyes that seemed bluer than usual. The rhythm with which he fucked was confident, but his dazed, hungry look was for Brian and Brian alone. Justin may as well be fucking _him_ , and it took no effort to remember that night, the way Justin’s thick cock had filled him.

He didn’t see Justin again after that night. On the excuse that he needed to study (despite it being mid-semester), Justin took a leave of absence from the diner, leaving Brian to assume that Justin believed he’d cheated on the fiddler after his and Brian’s thorough – and thoroughly delicious – eye-fuck. He could see no other explanation. Fuck him and his high-horse monogamy. He’d probably even “confessed” to Ian, and they’d spent the night tearfully reasserting their undying love for one another. They were probably even seeing a fucking therapist like a couple of lesbians. Brian didn’t care. He’d had it.

Mikey was pleased. “So Boy Wonder finally got the hint and got lost.” Brian shrugged. “Apparently.” Mikey frowned. “And you’re happy, right?” Brian gave him one of his sharkiest smiles. “Ecstatic.” Mikey sighed. “I’ll never understand. He wasn’t even your type. I’ll never stop asking myself, ‘why him?’” Brian took a sip of coffee, and, like he always did, winced at both its temperature and taste. “Why’d Bush win the election?” he asked. Mikey rolled his eyes. “I don’t see the similarity.” Brian turned to him. “What I meant was that, like the stupid fucking voters, I made a mistake.”

Brian had thought that having to see Justin all the time at the diner was hard, but it was nothing compared to _not_ seeing him. The winter was the worst he could remember and not because it was ice storm after ice storm. Fucking failed to distract him like it used to. E made him dopy instead of horny. Unwanted thoughts protruded through the thin membrane of his denial. As much as he hated to admit it, not seeing Justin frayed his nerves. The pain of his presence was worth the knowledge that Justin was alright – that he was happy.

_Justin_

He was ashamed. Babylon’s disgusting backroom? Brian was right: at the end of the day, men just wanted to fuck someone, anyone, it didn’t matter. Justin remembered how his sneakers stuck to the floor, gummy with come and lube and littered with used condoms. He missed Ethan and what they’d had. He missed walks in the park and sitting in cafés listening to Ethan’s stories of his fellow musicians. He missed the simple things. Fucking was too complicated, too messy. Brian’s claim to the contrary was bullshit. Fucking was gory and glorious, spit, shit, semen. And, regrettably, sometimes even love.

He didn’t yet have sufficient strength to quit the diner, so he decided to take a break that he knew would continue until everyone tacitly understood that he wouldn’t return. He said he had to concentrate on school, which was true; his creativity had left him when he left Ethan, but that wasn’t all. He could no longer bear to be around Brian. Brian was distracting. Damn him for his disdain for colognes and scented soaps. Damn him for chewing abstractedly on his pen while he completed a crossword. Damn him for making Gus giggle. Damn him for simply existing.

He would’ve loved renting his own place, but (a) he couldn’t afford it, and (b) his mother thought it was a bad idea. “You’re depressed,” she said over lunch. “You shouldn’t be alone right now. It’s bad enough that you quit the diner.” At least she didn’t tell him to reconcile with Ethan. He’d already tried. They’d even spent a weekend together – most of it in bed – but when Sunday night rolled around, he was itching to return to Daphne’s. He’d been nervous about telling Ethan, but in the end it was Ethan who asked him to leave. And never come back.

When Daphne was out, he jerked-off. It was something to do. During his first session of the day, he fantasized about magazine photos; during the second, he fantasized about movie scenes; during the third, he fantasized about being at the bathhouses; during the fourth, he fantasized about fucking hot guys in his class; during the fifth, he had to concentrate hard on the dirtiest things imaginable. It was only during the last session that he’d allow himself to remember fucking Brian. By then there wasn’t much come left, but the orgasm itself never failed to blow his mind.

_Brian_

Justin was staying with Daphne. Brian knew because she told him. She’d come to the diner one morning and squirmed into an already-crowded booth. The boys, who were hung-over, grumbled. Deb recognized her, said she was “adorable as ever,” and brought her some coffee. “Justin’s living with me,” she said to Brian who was regarding her with an arched eyebrow. “And I care why?” he asked. She rolled her eyes. “Whatever. I just wanted you to know in case. . .” Brian raised his other eyebrow. “In case what?” She swiped his pen. “In case he needs you,” she replied.

He was curious whether Justin’s move to Daphne’s was to better convince people (assuming they cared) that the fiddler wasn’t gay and Justin wasn’t his boyfriend or because they’d split up. He would’ve asked that morning at the diner, but the boys were there, and he’d be damned if he appeared to give a shit. Brian didn’t acknowledge the napkin Daphne slid across the table. She’d written her number and address on it. Only after everyone left, did he pick it up and discreetly tuck it in his pocket. Of course, Deb saw. He scowled when she winked at him.

Fortunately Stockwell kept him busy. If he had unoccupied time, he might’ve done some sleuthing on the status of Justin’s little love affair. He needed to let go, and now was the perfect time. The adage “out of sight, out of mind” was proving itself to be true, so true in fact that he finally tore up the Justin-look-alike’s business card. He’d only hired the guy a few times after that first night, but he’d kept the card. When things got unbearable, there’d always been the blond hustler. But that kind of desperation was fading. It was about fucking time.

He was never going to have another relationship. His and Justin’s had brought him nothing but hassle and misery. Not to mention humiliation. All of gay Pittsburgh had watched Justin walk out on him. And then everyone had seen him more or less sprint to the backdoor so that no one would see him cry like some little girl who’d been dumped by her beau. If Justin had wanted to humiliate him (which clearly he had), he couldn’t have picked a better time and place. Brian had been too hurt at the time to be angry, but he was now.

_Justin_

He didn’t tell Daphne when he began dreaming increasingly of Brian. He just didn’t want to talk about it. What was the point? It’s not like he wanted them to get back together (as though that was even an option). And he dreaded hearing “I told you so.” Daph had never liked Ethan. Justin didn’t want to listen to her badmouth him. He’d loved Ethan – or at least he thought he had. Jesus, what was “love” anyway? Had he even loved Brian? Or had it been nothing but a hormone-driven obsession? Fuck them both. He didn’t need _either_ of them.

He couldn’t eat. He couldn’t sleep. He couldn’t do his homework. He didn’t want to stay in. He didn’t want to go out. He sometimes went days without showering and then felt bad because he was stinking up Daphne’s apartment with B.O. and cigarettes. He was a loser who sucked at everything. He never should’ve been born. He was a blob of chewed gum on the sidewalk. The world sucked. Nobody loved him; nobody ever would. He chewed his fingernails, picked at his toes and listened to morose songs. He could hear Brian’s mocking voice: Sunshine, you are _so_ pathetic.

What was so great about sex? It didn’t result in anything you couldn’t have done yourself. He’d been fucked in every way imaginable. Afterward you still just fell asleep or got stoned and ate a whole pizza with extra cheese. So you stick your dick in someone’s orifices or they stick theirs in yours. Brian was so immature and, yes, pathetic to build a life around a five-second sensation. Isn’t that like being a crack addict? Even worse, he’d tried to indoctrinate Justin. Apparently that’s all there was to being a homosexual. Fucking men. “Shallow” didn’t begin to cover it.

Brain had never given him chocolates or flowers, but he’d given Justin keys to both the loft and the Jeep and the password to his bank account. He’d given Justin a credit card and guaranteed the limit. He’d bought Justin his cell and paid the bill. He had covered (and still did) Justin’s tuition. He’d given Justin blowjobs, rimjobs, and uncountable mind-blowing orgasms. He’d taught Justin how to take photographs, how to drive a stick shift, how to fuck. But he’d never said “I love you.” Ethan had. Both men had thought he could be cheaply bought. They’d been wrong. 

_Brian_

He ran into Jennifer the other day. They smiled pleasantly, said hello, and then just stood there in the most awkward silence Brian had ever known. She’d looked like she wanted to say something, something important, but she didn’t. Instead she pleaded with him with her mama-doe eyes. She looked unhappy; Brian knew it had something to do with Justin. He bit his tongue (literally) to keep himself from asking what was wrong. Justin wasn’t his problem anymore. Why didn’t she go to the fiddler? Why did she think he gave a shit? Clearly, a mother’s instincts aren’t always right.

Deb was constantly going on about how much she missed “Sunshine.” It drove Brian up the wall. One day, he snapped. “He’s not coming back, Deb. Just leave it for fuck’s sake!” She’d gotten in his face with that pointed-finger-thing. “And whose fault is that? If you didn’t hang out here as much as you hang out at Babylon, maybe he'd feel comfortable enough to return to his family." Brian gaped at her, and immediately Mikey was there, leading him outside. “She didn’t mean it,” he said, pulling Brian into a hug. “Don’t do what I know you want to.”

But, of course, he did. He was Brian Kinney, for fuck sake. The last thing he was going to do was hang around where he wasn’t welcome. He stopped going to the diner, taking Mikey’s calls or lounging around the pool table with the boys at Woody’s. He even called Daphne. “Tell the little twat to go to the fucking diner,” he barked at her. “Deb misses him. He doesn’t need to take his job back, just tell him to stop by for a sandwich or a fucking lemon bar.” Then he slammed the phone down before she could reply.

Like one of Mussolini’s trains, Deb came by when expected to apologize. Brian scowled and grumbled, and then, of course, relented and agreed to return to the fold. He heroically refrained from asking whether Justin had stopped by, and she didn’t offer any information. But he could tell that, like Jennifer, she was worried. Something was clearly wrong; it took every ounce of will he possessed not to ask what it was. Justin’s business wasn’t his concern, but when Deb left, he called Daphne again. “Call and let it ring twice if there’s an emergency,” he told her and hung-up.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time to grab a box of tissues (and hang on to them for the next part)

_Justin_

Deb practically climbed over the counter when she saw him. “Sunshine!” she cried. He couldn’t help smiling. He’d missed her. Linz, Emmett and Ted were there; they gave him hugs and kisses and made room for him at their booth. Deb brought him half the diner’s breakfast menu and stood beaming while he ate. There was a lot of talk about Gus and Mel and “that asshole Stockwell.” To his relief, no one mentioned Brian or asked about Ethan. He tried to smile and did his utmost best to sound happy and busy, but only Ted seemed to buy it.

“Poor Sunshine,” Deb said. “They must’ve broken up.” Justin paused; he’d known they’d start discussing him when he went to the bathroom. “He’s an amazing kid. Why can’t he find someone who appreciates him?” “Brian did,” Linz said. “In his own way.” “And we all know about ‘Brian’s way,’” said Emmett. “Do we?” Linz replied. “I’ve known him longer than you have. He really loved Justin.” “Well,” Deb said, “I’ve known him even longer. Brian will never be able to love anyone before he forgives himself.” “For what?” Em asked. “For having been born, sweetie,” Deb replied. “For merely existing.”

He had to leave. Not because he’d learned something he hadn’t already known, but because he’d tried to forget that he knew it. If he hadn’t, he couldn’t have left Brian. Brian had _needed_ him. As much as Brian had felt bad about sometimes being an asshole, being able to care for Justin was infinitely more important. Brian liked himself when he was kind to the people he loved. And liking yourself is just one step before being able to love another. One thing was certain, if Brian still loved him, there was no way now he didn’t hate himself.

Fortunately, he remembered the dumpster or he would’ve had to pass Brian. Justin had just left the diner when he glimpsed a familiar figure approaching, and because Brian was _the_ last person he wanted to deal with, he quickly hid. Not his proudest moment. Brian was wearing his long leather coat, and his hands were in his pockets. His breath smoked in the frigid air. He paused for a long time at the door of the diner, but instead of going in, he continued with his head down and shoulders hunched – the posture of a man who didn’t feel welcome.

_Brian_

If people around Justin were worried, Brian wasn’t surprised. He’d seen Justin depressed. Usually every fiber of Justin’s being vibrated with curiosity and defiance. The curiosity made him brave, and the defiance made him unstoppable. He was the last person one would imagine being depressed for days on end, but Brian could attest to it. He’d seen Justin’s capacity for despair a couple of times before the bashing and then, after the bashing, more often. He was listless, monosyllabic, grieving. Nothing cheered him up. But Brian never stopped trying, although money and sex was all he could think to offer.

Now that the hurt was fading, Brian was able to fantasize about Justin again. Before it’d been too painful. His tricks always hit the right constellation of erogenous zones – tits, dick, balls, asshole (it wasn’t rocket science) – but Justin had revered _all_ of him. Justin’s fingers fucking him while he sucked hungrily on his throat; Justin using pre-come to draw circles around his nipples; Justin nibbling the arch of his foot, the backs of his knees, the tendons in his neck. Justin rimming him while he caressed the insides of his thighs. No part of him went untouched, unkissed. Unworshipped.

When he returned to his usual routine, he saw that Deb had added a new item to the menu. Sunshine’s Sunny-Side-Ups with Scrapple. Brian laughed. Justin _hated_ scrapple – the mere thought of it made him gag. He asked Deb if she knew that, and she smirked. Of course, she did. Brian took a picture of the chalkboard and sent copies to Daphne’s (and the fiddler's) addresses. They weren’t signed but he forged Deb’s penmanship to write a note: _Your Liberty Ave. family misses you!_ Until she gave him a hug from behind, he hadn’t realized Linz had been watching him.

He’d let Justin tie him up. He’d let Justin deny him orgasms. He’d let Justin edge and sound and E-stim him. He’d let Justin put every manner of things up his ass except his fist (but only because Justin was too inexperienced). He’d let Justin spank him and whip him with a crop (as long as there were no bruises – no marks; it was one of his very few rules). He never told Justin that he didn’t let anyone else do _any_ of those things. Now he wished he had. It was just one of his many fucking stupid mistakes. 

_Justin_

He turned off his cell and kept it off after one of Ethan’s friends called to bitch him out. Apparently, he’d treated Ethan terribly, and Ethan never would’ve cheated if Justin had made him feel like he truly loved him. “He was nothing but a rebound,” she said. “You still wanted that other guy.” He’d been determined not to argue with her, but he couldn’t let the rebound remark go unanswered. “I wasn’t still in love with my ex when Ethan and I got together,” he snapped. Daphne smiled at him when he hung up. “Bullshit you weren’t,” she said.

He hadn’t wanted to admit it, but now he could. Ethan sucked in bed. His cock was five inches to Brian’s nine, and his nipples never got hard even when his dick was. He didn’t like rimming – giving or receiving – and his balls were ridiculously ticklish. He could kiss forever, but he didn’t have the stamina to give good head. Sex had to be “romantic,” never rough and dirty. He loved blindfolds and feathers but balked at cock rings. And dildos, of course, were off the table. It’d been a nice change at first, but then it just got boring.

“Brian’s an asshole,” he kept telling Daphne. She’d nod but in a perfunctory way. “Alright, okay, I get it,” she finally snapped. “Then stop talking about him – I’m sick of hearing how great Ethan was and how shitty Brian was. If Ethan was so great, why’d you leave him?” “Duh. He cheated on me and then lied about it, but I think now I should’ve given him a second chance.” “Why?” she replied. “So he could do it again?” “I gave Brian a million chances,” Justin said. Daphne just sighed. “Well, maybe you should’ve given him a million and one.”

Brian’s eyes looked bluish on Tuesdays, greenish on Fridays, and brownish on Sundays. Under red spotlights, his hair was auburn and under blue, it was black. His lips were swollen when he gave head and lipstick-pink when they were chapped. He was proud of his pubic hair and said he’d be damned before he waxed – even his ass-crack. “Fuck ‘em if they don’t wanna floss.” His eyes could go from ice to intimate in an instant, and he had a weakness for Oreos and anal beads. Once Justin had loved all of these things; now he wanted to forget them.

_Brian_

Cynthia was curious. He could tell by the way she kept licking her lips as though she was a lioness and the information she sought was a wounded gazelle. “Someone keeps calling and asking for you and then hanging up before I can transfer the call.” He arched an eyebrow. “Man or woman?” he asked. “Man,” she replied. Brian’s eyes narrowed. Who else could it be except the fucking fiddler? He probably blamed Brian for Justin’s apparent unhappiness. “Next time he calls, tell him I’m fucking busy and hang up,” he said. Cynthia sighed disappointedly. Brian tried not to smile. 

Sometimes he’d wake and find himself in Justin’s arms. Depending on his mood, Brian found it either annoying or endearing (usually a combination of both). He tended to get too hot while he slept, which was why he kept two feet between himself and a bed partner. Justin knew that, but apparently the knowledge didn’t always prevent him from trying to snuggle, especially if Brian had been mean earlier or they weren’t speaking for some reason. Whether annoyed or touched, Brian never pushed him away, but when a trick tried the same thing, he was immediately banished to the couch.

He couldn’t decide whether the fact that his dreams of Justin were getting fewer and farther between was a positive development. They’d been an umbilical cord to the past, to the time he and Justin had spent together. Part of him was afraid that if they stopped, he’d be able to forget, and he wasn’t sure if that’s what he wanted. What’d happened to the numb existence he’d painstakingly built for himself over the years? Fucking the competition, fucking ass and getting fucked up. It’d been such a simple life. Why wasn’t he sure whether he missed it or not?

He ran into Jennifer again. Her eyes filled with tears when she stopped to talk to him. Brian’s heart rate spiked uncomfortably. “Thank you so much,” she said. “You’re a kind man, Brian.” He arched an eyebrow. Nobody had ever called him kind before. “So Deb gave it to you? Have you given it to him?” She shook her head. “He doesn’t want to see me,” she said. “And I suppose you’re ‘respecting his wishes.’” She frowned. “Of course I am. He’s an adult.” Brian rolled his eyes. “He’s also a silly twat who doesn’t know what’s good for him.”

_Justin_

Daphne must’ve given his mom a key because she showed up unannounced in the middle of one of his rare showers. She frowned when she saw him. “Honey, let me buy you some new jammies; those are so ratty-looking,” she said, and he laughed darkly. As if new pajamas could cure what ailed him. As if anything could. She sighed sadly and sat down next to him on the futon. “Honey, you’ve got to start going to class. Listen, sweetheart, everyone goes through break-ups. It’s part of growing up. I know it hurts, but you’ll survive. You’ve survived far worse.”

As his mom was preparing to leave, she turned with an “oh” as if she’d forgotten to mention some mundane thing. “Oh, by the way,” she said with a too-big smile. “I saw Brian the other day. He asked about you.” He glared at her. “Bullshit,” he said, and her smile faltered and faded. “He still cares about you,” she said. “Even if we didn’t discuss you, I can tell.” Justin just shook his head. He would never understand her weird love/hate thing when it came to Brian. “Maybe enough time has passed,” she said. “Why don’t you call him?”

Call him?? Was she _insane_? “And what would I say? ‘Oh, hey there, how’re things?’” She frowned at him. “You know what I mean,” she said. “No, actually, I don’t,” he replied. She sighed yet again. “Tell him you’re going through a rough patch.” He boggled at her. She had always thought Brian was nicer than he really was. “Are you kidding? I threw everything he gave me in his face in front of everyone and then snuck into his apartment to get my stuff without saying good-bye. Yeah, I’m so sure he wants to hear about my ‘rough patch.’”

“I think you underestimate him,” she said as she finished buttoning her coat and pulling on her gloves. “He wouldn’t still be paying your tuition if he didn’t, at the least, care about you.” Justin dragged his hand through his hair and collapsed against the futon pillows. Thanks a lot for getting my mom involved, Daph. “We had a deal,” he said, lighting a cigarette. “That was all.” She nodded, but she was clearly fighting an exasperated, yet adoring, smile. “Well, you know him best, sweetie,” she said. “And, oh, by the way. Deb asked me to give you this.”


	9. Chapter 9

_Brian_

After the shit with his nephew, Brian stopped wearing his bracelet. It was tainted now; he couldn’t look at it without hearing his mother’s hateful words. He hid it in his underwear drawer. If he left it there long enough, one day he’d be able to throw it away. But not yet. Thinking about it lying in a dump somewhere tied a knot in his throat. He wished there was someone he could give it to. Gus? But that would be weird. He’d fucked a zillion guys while wearing it. Mikey? No, for similar reasons. If only . . .

“Oh, honey.” Deb clutched the bracelet to her chest as her eyes filled with tears. “Thank you. Thank you _so_ much. I know how much this means to you.” Brian couldn’t help but smile. “Yeah, I bought it to commemorate the first time I fucked a Mexican.” She swatted his head lovingly. “No, you bought it because that was the first time you’d ever left Pennsylvania. I remember how you used to dream of all those beautiful faraway beaches.” “And beautiful men,” he added, leaning over the counter so she could kiss his cheek. “Love you, Brian Kinney,” she whispered.

For the first time in forever, he walked down Liberty Ave with a smile. Even if he was still with Ian, there was no way Justin wouldn’t accept the bracelet. He knew how much it meant to Brian; sometimes he even put it on while Brian was in the shower and made Brian tackle him and take it back – a tussle that inevitably turned into more. Justin would know what it meant. At least, Brian _hoped_ he would. His smiled faltered as he recalled Justin’s return from Vermont. It was then that Justin stopped understanding him – or even wanting to.

The email was succinct: “If you don’t want it, just do what you want. Throw it out, give it away, I don’t care. I just don’t want to find out.” When a reply arrived, he deleted it. He’d done all he was going to. If Justin was hurting for some unknown reason, he needed to work it out like the stubborn twat that he was. Even if he could help, Brian wasn’t going to – at least not beyond reminding Justin he wasn’t alone. Some things a man has to do on his own. If Brian had survived, so could Sunshine.

 

_Justin_

 

After his mom left, Justin slowly opened his clenched fist. He hadn’t been able to look at the bracelet until after she left. He hadn’t even had the words to say good-bye. She’d looked frightened for a second; she was probably thinking that giving him the bracelet had only made things worse, but when she asked him, he just stared at her. Yes, _of course_ , it only made things fucking worse! Jesus Christ! _Brian!_ he wanted to scream. _They’re just three little fucking words! All of them are only one fucking syllable! Why the fuck didn’t you just say them?_

He’d replied to Brian’s email, assuring him that he wanted to keep the bracelet, but Brian never responded. Knowing him, he’d deleted it without opening it. Justin tied the bracelet on his wrist. The leather was as soft as skin. Why had Brian given it to him? Justin tried-out several theories: Brian was being passive-aggressive? (But to what end?) Brian was mocking him? (But Brian didn’t know about the break-up.) Brian simply no longer wanted the bracelet? (Not likely.) Brian wanted him back? (Yeah, right.) Brian wanted to comfort him? To love him from a safe and unbridgeable distance?

Once he put the bracelet on, he never took it off, even in the shower. Daphne laughed, claiming it would grow moldy if he kept getting it wet. But he _needed_ to wear it. He started going to classes again and eating lunch in the cafeteria with his handful of friends. He even started drawing again, but that was the extent of his energy. Most of the time he wallowed on the futon, smoking like Brian used to when he had a deadline to meet, and every night – without exception - he dreamed of Brian. Gradually his time with Ethan melted into forgetfulness.

He remembers vividly the first time he was _sure_ Brian had feelings for him. It was when he mentioned he’d applied to out-of-state colleges. It’d been hard to know exactly what those feelings were, but they were clearly some rare species of emotion. Rather than make too much of it, he’d teased Brian about giving a shit. Predictably, Brian had blushed and grumbled and sped away after dropping him off, but Justin knew – he _knew_ – he’d caught a glimpse of affection unrelated to sex – a timid hint, a whisper of tenderness. A thorn of love plucked straight from Brian’s heart.

 

_Brian_

 

He remembers vividly the moment he realized he was over Justin. He was at work, preoccupied with a particularly challenging ad campaign, even more challenging than Stockwell’s. He tipped back in his chair and rested his head on his crossed arms. Life was good. The instant he thought it, he started probing into the corners of his brain looking for the bruises, for the barbs of regret. He couldn’t find them. That night, after several shots and a nose-full of coke, he tried again. Still nothing but a pinch of loneliness. He took a trick home. And let him stay.

“You look good,” Linz said, kissing him. “Not giving a shit puts a glow in my cheeks and a spring in my step,” he replied, reaching for Gus. “Doesn’t it, Sonnyboy?” She went to the kitchen and got a bottle of water. “So,” she said. “You’re over Justin.” Brian held Gus up, and the little boy smiled down at him. “There was nothing to get over,” he said. “Bullshit,” she replied, laughing. “And even if there was,” Brian added, “I don’t remember anymore. So no lobotomy required, which is a good fucking thing; I doubt my insurance would’ve covered it.”

Yes, it was true. He no longer dreamed of Justin, and his relief was no longer tinged with remorse. It took six months, but it’d finally happened. But that didn’t mean that loud, unexpected noises no longer gave him a start, and the sight of blood didn’t make him queasy. He supposed he’d never get over Justin’s bashing – it was a part of his life that had seeped through his skin and into the marrow of his bones. And the hours and hours and hours spent in the hospital, watching Justin’s face – troubled even in sleep. He’d never forget those either.

“Where’s your twink,” a trick asked, smirking as he unbuckled Brian’s belt. Brian bristled. “I never had a ‘twink,’” he replied. “I just got back to town,” the guy said. “Last time I was here, you had eyes for no one else.” Brian grabbed the man’s hand and yanked it out of his pants. “Fuck off,” he growled. The guy shrugged. “Testy, huh? Still miss your piece of teenage ass? Don’t worry; there’re more where he came from.” He pointed at a pack of giggling adolescences. Brian shoved him, walked away, and proceeded to get completely shitfaced at the bar.

 

_Justin_

Things changed after New York – after Brian had taken him in a frenzy of grunting, thrusting, sweaty need. He’d been insatiable, first fucking Justin on his back and then, after coming almost immediately, on his knees, shouting, “Fuck! Fuck! _Fuck!_ ” when he came again. He’d sucked Justin off all the while shoving as many fingers in Justin’s ass as he could, using his own pre-come as lube. He’d even straddled Justin’s chest and slapped his face wetly with his leaking cock. In short, Brian had completely lost his fucking mind. It was the first time, but certainly not the last. 

Once he would’ve done anything for Brian. Brian was the blazing center of his universe. Justin would’ve walked ten thousand miles barefoot like those crazy-ass monks in Ireland just to be in Brian’s presence. He’d carry water across a desert and never surrender to the necessity of thirst just so Brian could drink every drop. He’d even wanted to _be_ Brian – not an imitation, but Brian _himself_ , and if he couldn’t be Brian, Justin wanted to eat him, consume him, digest him, have Brian inside of him in every way imaginable. He’d been sure he would die if he couldn’t.

With Ethan everything was less urgent, less necessary. Their relationship hadn’t revolved around sex the way his relationship with Brian had. It’d been comfortable and fun. They’d had sex every day, but usually just once. Jesus, with Brian it’d been anywhere between three to seven (tricks not included)! Brian even jerked off at work! (Justin knew because Brian often called to “share the experience.”) Early on, Justin Googled “sex addiction.” Did it explain Brian’s unwillingness to commit? Was he worried Justin would never be enough? If so, wtf? It wasn’t as though Justin had ever complained – or wanted anything less.

And then there’d been the dirty talk. Ethan hadn’t liked it – it’d either made him laugh or grossed him out depending on how detailed Justin was in his descriptions and requests. But how would Justin have known most “normal” people didn’t want to be told to suck a cock till they gagged or wanted their partner to order them to spread their cheeks and fuck his tongue like a hungry slut? And they _definitely_ did _not_ want to be told by their partner that he was going to fuck them so loose he could drive a bus up their ass.

 

_Brian_

 

Brian no longer dreamed of Justin, but he unwillingly compared his tricks to him. Most of them were found to be lacking in any number of ways. None of them (as in _none_ of them) had as big and eager a cock (Justin was so well endowed that Brian hadn’t minded that Justin was bigger than he was, because, honestly, who can compete with a dick worthy of the record books?) No trick he could find would do anything without balking for even a second, and no trick lived for Brian's every orgasm, his every moan, his every single breath.

Thanks to Emmett, who’d swipe Brian’s camera and took candid photos, there were pictures – pictures of Justin tickling Brian on the couch or feeding him cold pizza they’d bought the night before to satisfy their munchies. There were even several of him and Justin kissing with varying degrees of intimacy, including one in which their chins were shiny with spit as they devoured each other with uncensored lust. _He doesn’t love me; he loves fucking me,_ ” Justin had told Michael just before he left. Brian ripped every photo to shreds, shoved them down the garbage disposal, and turned it on.

Whoever said anger saps your energy was full of shit. Love is the real culprit. Anger is a five-alarm fire in your guts, an arched eyebrow, a disdainful curl of the lip. It’s power and money and having the courage to tell your biggest client that his multi-thousand dollar ads will lose him the election. It’s barely-safe sex – putting on the condom at the last possible second before the need for penetration overwhelms you. It’s remembering that the only one you give a shit about is you . . . and your son. How the hell had you let that happen?

He needed something he could only get in the neighborhood near PIFA. He should’ve sent Cynthia, but he hadn’t. Clouds hovered, swollen with snow. He was stopped at a light when he saw Justin. A long scarf, hunched shoulders and a hat from under which blond hair had escaped. He was looking at the sidewalk, oblivious and unhappy. Brian watched him pass, not realizing that the light had changed until the driver behind him honked impatiently. He watched Justin in the rearview mirror until he was too far away. It would've been so easy to turn around, but he didn't. 

_Justin_

Once the crying started, it didn’t stop. He’d just press the shells of Brian’s bracelet against his cheek and grieve. He grieved for the loss of his family, for the loss of his hand’s strength, for the loss of the fearless, reckless, hopeful person he’d been before the bashing. He yearned for a man’s arms, for a man’s kisses, for the warmth of a man sleeping beside him. He yearned for Deb and Lindsay and Mel. He yearned for the sound of violin music pouring through an open window, and he yearned for Brian – for every single fucking thing about him. 

The realization that he needed to see Brian or die felt like the inevitable period at the end of a sentence. The conclusion of a meandering story. He didn’t need anything more. He just needed to see Brian’s face. It’d been a whole month. He needed to see the mercurial hazel of Brian’s eyes. He needed to see the tender place where his collar bones met, the hint of late afternoon stubble, the manicured nails Brian was forever trying not to chew. The smile that implied the existence of secrets which, one day, he might whisper in your ear.

Everyone had told him Brian’s mother resented him and his father hit him. Everyone told him that, before Pittsburgh, Brian’s family never lived in one place long enough for him to make a friend. Everyone told him Brian had lived alone all four years of college. Everyone told him Brian started drinking in junior high. Everyone told him Brian once played Russian roulette with his dad’s .45 while Michael watched, crying. Everyone told him everything about Brian that had, at one time or another, been revealed to them. Everyone told him that they’d never forgotten. How the hell had Justin?

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	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So we're winding down (or should I say "up") to the end, which, of course, is no secret. I'm way behind in replying to comments - please forgive me. I'm in the process of moving for the second time in 3 months, although thankfully this time it's just down the street and not a zillion miles away. I will get back up on the comment-replying horse asap. In the meantime, thank you SO MUCH to everyone who's been reading and commenting. I have this little itty-bitty inkling that you won't be disappointed (which means, yes, I think I've managed to make the reunion make sense). There's just one more chapter to go. Stick with me.

_Brian_

Brian Kinney was back on top of his game. He was pulling in accounts left and right and pulling tricks Monday through Saturday. (He’d hook up on Sunday except Deb would kill him if he missed dinner, and by the time he got home all he wanted was to fall into an overfed sleep). His demands were being met by both tricks and minions, no matter how onerous or deviant, and his Vette was polished and detailed weekly. He’d added inches to his chest, and his tan was flawless. Life was good.

And then it wasn’t. “. . . oh, Brian, this is Justin Taylor, our new intern. Justin, this is Mr. Kinney, one of the partners in the agency.” “Nice to meet you, Mr. Kinney,” Justin said holding out his hand for a shake. _Nice to meet you, Mr. Kinney?_ How long had he practiced that poker face? Not a stammer, not even a blink. Impressive. Brian would’ve admired it, but he was too distracted by his incredulity, not to mention the sucker punch to the head. He hadn’t seen Justin in over a month, and now here he was, well inside Brian’s territory, as nonchalant as can be.

His answering smile (if you could call it that) was brittle; he couldn’t disguise the shock. He walked away without a word and went straight to Cynthia’s desk. He could barely force the words past the strangling fury. “Justin,” he rasped. “My office.” Cynthia grimaced. She must’ve seen Justin already. “You didn’t know?” she said. “I didn’t know,” he replied. In his office, he paced, cracking his knuckles as though he was a champion boxer preparing for the first round with an opponent – the only opponent he’d ever lost to – and to whom he was likely to lose again.

While he paced, he scoured his memory for reasons that would justify Justin’s emotional aggression – and realized there were plenty, especially the “blond boy ass” remark. He collapsed in his chair. The little shit; it was clearly payback time. If he wore that ring to work, Brian was going to find the first possible excuse to fire him. Justin knew, and Brian knew he knew, that there’d been lingering feelings (for lack of a better word) after the break-up; feelings that Brian had thought he’d finally overcome and that now Justin was going to pull from his guts like a tapeworm.

_Justin_

Brian. Brian. Brian. Jesus, his thoughts were so fucking repetitive they were wearing grooves in his gray matter. He knew from past brushes with depression that he shouldn’t ruminate obsessively, that it was unhealthy, but even knowing he was making things worse didn’t stop the fantasies from bouncing around in his skull. He heard Brian’s voice as though he was everywhere, his sardonic laugh, the gorgeous sounds he made during sex. Every hazel-eyed burnet he encountered was, for an instant, Brian. Every tall man in a suit walking down the street. It was like being haunted or, more accurately, cursed.

He tried the devil/angel thing. Brian was selfish, but he’d paid Justin’s tuition and let Justin do things to him, sexually and emotionally, that Justin knew he’d never let anyone do before. Or would again. Brian was cruel, but he could also be kind; he’d patiently coached Justin through the aftermath of his bashing. True, Brian never wanted to talk about it, but Justin knew it wasn’t because he didn’t care – in fact, he cared too much. Brian couldn’t say “I love you,” but, honestly, should that have been a deal-breaker? Both the devil and angel agreed that it shouldn’t have.

He finally revealed his feelings to Daphne, although not their depth and intensity. He couldn’t go on letting her believe he was depressed over Ethan. Nothing could be less true; he hardly even remembered Ethan, and when he did, he was embarrassed (and horrified) at how blithely he’d thrown away his soul-mate for some cheap wine, stinky cheese and ring that did nothing except give him a rash. It’s not that he didn’t think Ethan loved him; it’s just that, in hindsight, Justin knew he’d never loved him back. At least not like he’d loved Brian. And still did.

Daphne’s plan basically boiled down to stalking Brian – following him everywhere as though they were two socks with static-cling. Step one in Mission Probably-Impossible was for Justin to get an internship with Vanguard. Once embedded in Vanguard, he must grab every opportunity to run into Brian. Then there were Woody’s and Babylon; MPI required him to hang out at both as much as possible in the hottest clothes he couldn’t afford, waiting like a slutty spider in its web for an opportunity to “causally” interact with the fly (aka Brian). And don’t forget breakfast, lunch and dinner at the diner!

_Brian_

Justin looked good, certainly better than Brian had expected given the news that Justin was depressed. He was dressed in a dark sweater that accentuated his eyes, and his hair – fuck, his hair was fucking gorgeous. So, what had brought about this new bright-eyed, scrubbed-faced, annoyingly-cheerful Justin? Brian knew without asking (as though he would). Justin and the fiddler had reunited. True, Justin wasn’t wearing that fucking ring, but they’d probably found something else to symbolize their undying love, like matching tattoos or something equally pathetic. Jesus. The thought of Justin marring his beautiful body like that made Brian crazy.

He could do it with nothing but an email. He could deny Justin the internship, but Justin had adroitly turned the tables by mentioning the fact that Brian was paying his tuition. Not bad, especially the delivery; it was dripping with feigned innocence and condescension. The twat had Brian cornered. If he refused to okay Justin’s internship, he’d looked like he couldn’t bear Justin’s presence because he was still sick with heartache over the end of their “relationship.” Smart little fucker. But if he did approve it . . . Justin was going to make his life a living hell.

Cynthia became his corporeal form; he gave her messages to convey to the art department. He wasn’t worried they’d go unheeded; Cynthia hadn’t been his assistant all these years for nothing. She could make her icy blue eyes look colder than his hazel eyes ever could. He had no doubt she was scary as hell, which explained the art department’s increased output. Or not. “I haven’t had to yell louder than usual,” Cynthia reported. “They just have their act together these days.” Neither of them speculated as to why that might be. They didn’t have to. The answer was obvious.

Jeff Murphy, head of Vanguard’s art department couldn’t stop blabbing about Justin. He’s so this & that, blah, blah, blah. Brian listened wordlessly until Murph got the hint that he should stop talking about the new intern. “Sounds like I should give this kid your job,” Brian said. Murph’s guppy-mouths made it clear that the absence of an accompanying laugh had confused the poor guy. Brian sighed. “Look,” he said. “I’m glad that you guys are gah-gah over your shiny new intern, but I have more important things to think about. Now, how far have you gotten with Haverty’s Hardware?”

_Justin_

Daphne was ecstatic when Justin told her Brian was avoiding him. “Don’t you see?” she said excitedly. “He can’t bear to be around you because it stirs up all those feelings he thought he’d gotten over. It’s obvious, Justin; he still loves you.” But Justin knew that already. He knew Brian had never stopped loving him. Even the horrible things Brian had said and done – it was all because Justin had broken his heart. But just because Brian loved him didn’t mean Brian wanted him back. In fact, it probably meant the exact opposite. Brian wanted him gone. Tough shit.

Justin would’ve laughed except he was too frustrated. Woody’s wasn’t a large bar; Brian was right over there playing pool with the boys, but he hadn’t looked in Justin’s direction all night. Someone must’ve alerted Brian to his presence. Great. He wasn’t desperate yet. Mission Probably-Impossible was still in its early stages, but at some point he _had_ to interact with Brian when Brian wasn’t sober. Beam was his new best friend. Brian his boss was a roaring lion, but drunk, horny Brian was a pussy-cat. Brian the ad exec was Everest, but Brian the inebriated slut was an anthill. 

Brian had never looked so stunningly beautiful. Justin wanted to think that it was because Brian was trying to seduce him, but he doubted it. Brian never looked at him or spoke to him directly. They hadn’t exchanged a word since Justin had started at Vanguard. Time was slipping away. If his internship ended without being able to talk to Brian, then he – and all his dreams of reuniting – were fucked. This was his one and only chance to win Brian back. If he failed, he’d lose Brian forever. Despite being well-deserved, the possibility made him sick to his stomach.

Now that he wasn’t fucking anyone, Justin began to appreciate how important sex is. Two human beings can never get closer than putting a piece of themselves in someone else’s body or taking a piece of another person’s body into theirs. Justin had said his and Brian’s relationship was about “nothing but sex,” but that’s like saying being alive is nothing but a beating heart. Both are important – both are _essential_. Brian had poured his soul into fucking Justin, every “I love you” that he couldn’t say, every answer to Justin’s every question. God, how had Justin not heard him?

_Brian_

The little twat was every-fucking-where. How was he finding time for his fiddler? Justin was at work before Brian arrived and left after Brian did. He was always at Woody’s or Babylon or working the Goddamn weekend shift at the diner. Brian felt hunted. And furious. Why wouldn’t Justin leave him alone? What point was he trying to prove? The only answer Brian could think of was that Justin was so completely over him that it no longer fazed him in the slightest to be in Brian’s company. Brian fervently wished he could feel the same way, but he didn’t.

As much as he’d like to, Brian couldn’t seal himself inside his office. Despite avoiding him like the plague, he still saw Justin everywhere. When he did, Justin was always chattering pleasantly with someone, and every time he heard Justin’s name, it was attached to a gushing superlative. Everyone loved him, and he loved them back, and wasn’t the world such a happy-fun-place full of flowers and honeybees and bubbling fucking brooks. Where was the sea-weedy fiddler? Clearly that was the million-dollar question. Either he was on a world tour or he was history. Why couldn’t Brian not care which?

Jesus, he needed a vacation far the fuck away from Pittsburgh and the ubiquitous Justin Taylor. First there’d been the persistent itch of desire; now there were feelings. And the dreams were back as though they’d never gone away. Christ, he was jerking off at work like a teenager jerks off between classes. He _had_ to fight the resurfacing of the repressed shit he’d tried to bury deep enough that no flood could unearth it. Even if (as he was beginning to suspect) Justin and Ian were over, he never wanted the humiliation of being under the kid’s thumb again.

It was bound to happen. Justin finally cornered him at Babylon. _Fancy meeting you here._ Really? Was that the best he could do? What about “take me home and fuck my brains out?” But Brian had to give him credit: the twat had fucked him over, yet he still had the balls to buy him a drink and invite him to dance. If nothing else, the encounter afforded Brian an opportunity to ask about Ian. He wasn’t surprised when Justin told him they’d broken up. The resulting schadenfreude tasted much better than the watery vodka and tonic Justin bought him.

_Justin_

There it was. Out in the open. Brian must know that Justin wanted him back. Justin had shot his wad. And unsurprisingly, Brian had turned him down. He’d played his last card. What was he going to do next? Confront Brian in the men’s room? Demand a conversation in an elevator? Jump in front of his car? He’d given Brian the upper hand, which meant he was fucked. You don’t stomp on a rattlesnake and expect it to cowardly slither away. Quite the contrary. You stomp on a rattlesnake, it bites the shit out of you and then you die.

If he could just go back to the Vermont trip! This time he’d wait for Brian to return so they could go together. It wasn’t as though Brian had never intended to go; he’d already bought everything – the SUV and equipment rental, two weeklong passes, the nicest room at the B&B – he’d just needed to go to Chicago first. Big Goddamn deal! They were still going to have five days. Brian hadn’t bailed on him, but he had asked Justin to understand the dire situation he was in. But Justin hadn’t even tried. Who’d been the one to fuck-over whom?

So Brian was selfish. Why’d Justin treat the fact like a newsflash? It wasn’t as though Justin was a paragon of selflessness. He’d fucked up his parents’ marriage just because he had to become the world’s biggest queer overnight. He’d taken Deb’s hospitality for granted. He’d found it necessary to parade Ethan around at Linz and Mel’s party even though he’d known Brian would likely be there (which, interestingly, had said more about his feelings for Brian than it had about any feelings he might’ve had for Ethan). What it all boiled down to was that he was a hypocrite. 

He’d been pissed when Brian made fun of that stupid ring Ethan gave him, and Justin had replied “fuck all you’d know about romance.” Turned out it was _he_ who knew fuck all about romance. Despite the absence of clichéd trappings, everything Brian had done for him was romantic. Stepping outside his cold, uncaring persona was romantic. Fucking Justin more than once was romantic. Paying his tuition so Justin could pursue his dreams was romantic. Pulling back the corner of the duvet had been romantic, but because they hadn’t come giftwrapped, Justin hadn’t seen them for what they really were.

_Brian_

Brian would’ve found the whole thing hilarious except it wasn’t fucking funny; it would only be funny if it’d happened to someone else. Justin had hit on him. Justin had fucking _hit_ on him. Justin. The same Justin who’d slit him open throat to crotch and scooped out his innards had bought him a drink and asked him to dance. Un-fucking-believable. He was lucky Brian hadn’t said anything worse than “thanks for the drink.” He had some pretty juicy adjectives stored up, but he’d been too overwhelmed by sheer what-the-fuckness. Thank God, he had the wits left to walk away.

One good thing about Justin’s stalking was that the family got him back. True, Brian would leave the diner if Justin came in, but the others didn’t. Linz and Mel were thrilled; Gus gurgled; Ted and Emmett were pleased, and Deb was so relieved she didn’t even chastise Brian for acting like an asshole. If nothing else, Justin’s return showed him how much he’d been missed. He was no longer Brian’s Boy Wonder, he was a person in his own right, separate from and equal to Brian. Actually, scratch “equal.” To all but Mikey, Justin was better. They were right.

Thank fuck, the internship only lasted a semester; by mid-May, Justin would be gone. Apparently, Brian was still going to have to deal with Justin’s presence everywhere else, but at least he’d have _some_ peace. And if Justin was good at crossing Brian’s path at every turn, Brian was equally adept at avoiding him. If he varied the times he went to the diner, Justin wouldn’t know what shifts to work. If he danced and tricked all night, Justin couldn’t try to hit on him again, and if he was too fucked-up, he wouldn’t remember, so it didn’t even matter.

There’s an advertising truism: If people don’t know about it, they won’t buy it. Brian’s profession revolved around that one basic principle, but when it came to Sunshine, he’d forgotten it. If Justin didn’t know the things Brian had done for him, how could he know Brian had done them? If Justin didn’t know Brian’s true feelings, it was because Brian never told him. Justin hadn’t known Brian had revealed to others that he loved him. Justin didn’t know he made Brian happy just by being around, and he didn’t know how Justin’s bashing had literally almost killed him too.

_Justin_

The day his mom told him that Brian had been to the hospital every night was the first day he cried his heart out since God only knows when. And they were in a restaurant, for fuck sake! He pushed his chair back from the table and ran to the door. By the time his mom joined him outside, he was shaking violently and unable to breathe. He was _beyond_ angry at her. How could she not have told him something so fucking _huge_?! He only let her wrap her arms around him because he was afraid he might fall.

He cried well into the evening. He cried until his eyes were swollen shut. Daphne held him, rocking him, trying to soothe him. He clung to the collar of her sweatshirt with one hand and clutched Brian’s bracelet with the other. “Why didn’t he tell you?” she asked, but he could only shake his head. It was going to be a long time before he could talk about it, but of course he knew the answer. Brian never revealed his kindness and devotion. God forbid! People might see him for something other than the selfish asshole they thought he was.

God, he’d fucked up! Not only had Brian watched over him, Brian hadn’t tricked between the time Justin moved in and the night they’d finally been able to make love. Justin seriously doubted Brian had been celibate that long since he was a teenager. To someone else, a few weeks without sex was no big deal, but for Brian it was _huge_. So Brian didn’t want to do the flowers and chocolates thing? So what? The things he’d done – and was still doing – for Justin were worth a thousand, no, a _million_ times more than anything Ethan had to offer! 

He couldn’t go back to Vanguard. How could he look Brian in the face after what he’d learned? Jesus, had Brian thought his mom had told him? Had Brian believed he’d known all along? God, it made Justin seem even more of an ungrateful prick than he already did! He wanted to run into Brian’s office and tell him that he hadn’t known, that he’d just found out, and, God, could Brian please forgive him. Fuck getting back together! He just wanted Brian to know that he hadn’t known and that if he had, he never _ever_ would have left.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phew! That's it. I brought them back together. Was it convincing? I'll leave that up to you guys to decide.

_Brian_

Suddenly, Justin vanished. Brian no longer bumped into him at every turn of the corridor. He no longer had to avoid catching Justin’s eye at Woody’s. The family started asking him where was Justin and what’d he done now to drive Justin away again. Brian’s shrug was genuine; he had no clue where Justin was. He only knew Justin was coming to Vanguard because Murph still babbled incessantly about his work. What had happened? Indeed, what _had_ he done? Or more likely, what hadn’t he done? And why did it even matter? Hadn’t Brian wanted him gone? Well, hadn’t he?

There was speculation that Justin and Ian had reunited. It made sense. Everyone’d noticed Justin following Brian around, wordlessly begging for a scrap of Brian’s attention. It’d stopped overnight. Everyone was happy – even Mikey but for different reasons. He loved Ben, but he’d never stopped being even more in love with Brian. To Mikey, Justin had been a vampire sucking life’s essence from the veins of his and Brian’s friendship. But the others were happy. Hadn’t the two boys been made for each other? Sometimes destiny could be kind. Sometimes the heavens (or, in Deb’s opinion, God) got things right.

God-fucking-damn-it! He’d _known_ this would happen. Since that afternoon Justin had appeared, summoned by Murph, the fucking necromancer, like an unwelcome ghost from shit-storms past, Brian had known he’d get hurt again, that seeing Justin’s face every day would mean nothing but unearthed pain. Like Lazarus from the dead, Justin’s presence had summoned the bones of his affections from their carefully dug grave, and now the skeletons were filling up his closets again, making it hard to find space for Armani’s spring collection. If the heavens could occasionally be kind, usually the forecasts were cruel. At least in Brian’s experience.

The crumbling of his will was inevitable; it always was whenever Justin was concerned. He knew the art department would be deserted; it always was at noon (unfortunately the little fuckers had to eat – yet another reason to hire undocumented workers who wore diapers rather than interrupt their work to go to the bathroom). Somehow he knew he’d find Justin; the twat had a bad habit of eating his meals from vending machines. And sure enough, there he was, flipping through a magazine, his feet on the work bench. Brian’s stomach clenched, but he’d be damned before he showed it.

_Justin_

 

“You _have_ to go back, Daphne said. “You can’t give up now. You told me yourself that you’ve caught him looking at you. You’re _so_ close, Justin!” He just nodded listlessly. He’d been staring at the same Pink poster for the last half an hour. “Justin, are you even listening to me?” she asked. He nodded again. He really was listening, but nothing she said could change his mind. He was not going back to Vanguard. Period. End of discussion. Brian hadn’t wanted him there to begin with, and Justin should’ve respected his feelings. But he hadn’t. He never had.

“Honey, please.” His mom reached out to brush his hair back, but he evaded her. He wasn’t sure he could forgive her. “I don’t think he wanted me to tell you,” she said. “Clearly it was something he was doing for himself, something he needed to do. Something he had to do quietly, privately. I wanted to respect that.” Justin stared at her. “At the price of letting me think he didn’t give a shit?” he replied incredulously. “Brian’s a fucking idiot who doesn’t know what’s good for him, but _you_! You’re my mom. I thought I could trust you.”

He was angry at the world, including Brian and even poor Daphne just because she was there, but he was most angry at himself. How could he have believed the fucking asshole hadn’t visited him? Especially after he realized how fathomless Brian’s self-hatred was. No matter what he said, Justin couldn’t convince him that the bashing hadn’t been his fault. Brian was many unsavory and irritating things, but he was not a coward. How had Justin convinced himself that he was? Hadn’t he been able to see inside Brian’s heart from day one? Why’d that change? Why did _he_ change?

He saw it now. His brain and his confidence weren’t all that Hobbs had wounded. He’d damaged Justin’s faith in humanity, his foundational assumption that ultimately people cared for one another. But that conviction died along with countless nerves, and with it died his ability to read people – including the man he loved. Even if, initially, he hadn’t believed Brian had visited him, that belief should’ve vanished when he saw the bloody scarf. But it didn’t. It remained to corrode what’d once been the potential for a lasting relationship – a relationship more eternal than his and Ethan’s ever could’ve been.

_Brian_

_So, where’s the ring? Set the wedding date yet? Who’s going to wear the gown? I think it should be Ian; his scraggily hair will look great with lace. You know what, Sunshine? You’re fucking up and I don’t mean by leaving me. You’re nineteen! Even munchers don’t couple-up that young. But, hell, don’t listen to me. After all, I know fuck-all about romance. All I know is that the most “romantic” thing a man can do is find his heart before he gives it away. Otherwise the “gift” is nothing but an empty box – and an even emptier promise._

“So, how’s it going, Taylor?” Brian was proud of his calm voice, his air of bored indifference. His brain could be saying one thing, but his mouth often said another. It’d always been that way. He rarely said what he really thought; it was too revealing. Half of Pittsburgh has seen his ass, but no one has seen his mind – let alone his heart. Mikey was the only exception, but Mikey could only understand so much. It’d been Justin – that bratty kid who’d figured him out, but only long enough to decide that what he’d seen wasn’t what he wanted.

He didn’t ask about the fiddler, but he did ask Justin to help him set up for the meeting with Eyeconics. Which Justin managed to screw up in predictable Justin fashion. Leave it to the little twat to pipe up inappropriately. How could Brian have expected anything else? Sunshine keep his mouth shut? Yeah, right. But thank God: Justin’s ill-timed “orange is the new blue” comment was actually an opportunity disguised as a fuck-up. Now Brian could fire him, send his insouciant attitude home with his engagement ring and that uppity mouth that Brian couldn’t stop imagining sucking his cock.

Ultimately, he gave Justin One Last Chance to get it right. He _had_ to – the little twat was so _fucking_ close. “You would’ve told me that you love me, that you’d go on loving me even after I was gone,” he said angrily. That was it, Brian’s cue to say “I never loved you, and I still don’t.” But he kept his mouth shut. It was as close to agreement as he was capable of getting. For him, an unrefuted claim was as good as an affirmative declaration. “But you never did, so it’s just as well that I go.”

_Justin_

“But you _have_ to go back,” Daphne said for the eight-billionth time. The refrain was getting old. “How many times do I have to tell you that I _can’t_?” he said, pleading with his eyes for her to understand. “Just think how’d you feel if you’d hurt someone you love – take me for example. And forget ‘hurt,’ how about broke his heart and threw everything he’d ever given you in his face? Would you want to have to see him every fucking day? Every day reminding you what a shit you were? I can’t do it, Daphne. I just can’t.”

She grabbed his chin, forcing him to look at her. “You’re being an ass,” she said. “I mean, what’s he thinking now? There you were following him everywhere, and now you’ve disappeared. It’s obvious. He’s thinking you and Ethan got back together. He thinks you’re basically dumping him again. Do you want that? Do you want him to believe he means that little to you? You’re playing with fire, Justin, but it’s not only you who’s burning. Just tell him you know about his visits, that you hadn’t known before. He’s not stupid; he’ll understand what you’re trying to say.”

It took another day of agonizing before he conceded she was right; he had to go back to Vanguard. But he was going to lie-low. He’d courted Brian at every turn; now he was going to leave Brian alone. He’d already done enough damage. “Listen,” Daphne said as he went through outfit after outfit trying to decide what to wear on his first day back. “You have to pretend like nothing’s wrong. It’ll just spook him if he thinks something’s up. Be casual and friendly. Let him relax when he’s around you.” Justin snorted. Brian relax? That’ll be the day.

It took forever but finally Brian came to the art department. Thankfully, Justin was being a slacker, so it was easy to look casual and unsurprised even though his heart was pounding. He didn’t put down _The New Yorker_. Keep calm, he told himself. “Hey, Brian,” he said carelessly. Brian gave him The Look. “It’s Mr. Kinney.” He was annoyed – or at least acting that way. Where the hell were the others? Justin saw the opening and dashed through it. “Can I help?” Brian raised his eyebrows and agreed. Had he also seen an opening? Please God, say he had.

_Brian_

He was leaving again! He was fucking leaving! Brian grabbed Justin’s arm, spinning him around to look at him. Like a picked scab, the pain was back, the wound reopened. He couldn’t keep the anger out of his voice. “That’s so like you!” he shouted. “You don’t hear what you want, so you leave. Try standing up for yourself for a change. Have some balls!” An incredulous expression crossed Justin’s face, and then the twat kissed him – a fierce, demanding kiss right on the mouth. It happened so fast that Brian couldn’t respond. It was the last thing he’d expected.

So, he’d been wrong. The fiddler was history, and Justin wanted Brian back enough to risk his formidable anger. _And you’re so smart?_ No one talked to him that way. But Justin was right. He’d been an idiot not to ask Justin to stay with words because clearly Justin hadn’t been able to read his actions. What had Justin thought when he’d pulled back the duvet? Hadn’t he seen the obvious plea for what it was? But then again, he’d misread Justin’s response. He’d thought Justin was choosing him, but he wasn’t, so why would he now? Nothing had changed

Justin was a fool if he thought Brian was sober and celibate. He was still the asshole who found it easy to say shitty things and impossible to say anything nice. He still ragged on Mikey and belittled Emmett and Ted’s absurd relationship. He was still the same guy who’d ruined his father’s funeral and proudly represents a queer-hating mayoral candidate. And he was still the one who’d nearly caused the death of the only person who’d ever loved him for what he could be and not just for what he was. Or, more accurately, what everyone thought he was.

Justin gave the message to Cynthia who’d given Brian the wiggly eyebrows. Justin wanted a meeting. Brian twirled a pen between his fingers. What did he want? To give Brian one last chance to say I love you, because if that’s it, Brian was going to disappoint him yet again. He was not, and never would, say those cheap lousy words. After all, Justin and Ian had probably been saying them for the past six months. Clearly it hadn’t cemented their relationship for all eternity. It’d been a joke, a cruel lesson Justin needed to learn, and hopefully he had.

_Justin_

So, yeah, okay. He’d fucked up with the boards, but apparently that’s not why Brian was firing him. It’d been Justin’s audacity for answering a question. What should he have done? Say “I can’t answer that,” or something even stupider like “I don’t know”? Brian didn’t know him at all if he’d really thought Justin would keep his mouth shut. Fuck him! Justin was an artist – and a damn good one too! What was the point of hiring an intern with top grades if you didn’t want his input? Christ! He would’ve thought that Brian would be proud of him.

Daphne was jump-up-and-down-thrilled when Justin told her he’d kissed Brian but furious when he told her that was it. “He fired me,” he said. “I can’t go back after he fired me.” She flopped down beside him on the futon. “Okay, so don’t go back. Give up. Say ‘fuck it, who needs Brian Kinney anyway?’ It’s not like you’re in love with him.” Justin leapt up like he’d been stung. “That’s total bullshit!” he yelled. He wanted Brian back more than he wanted to breathe his next breath. Daphne grinned. Who knew she’d been taking Italian mother lessons from Deb.

He didn’t sleep, and the morning came too soon. This really was it. He’d ask to see Brian, but if he refused, it was over. Justin wasn’t going to hound him anymore. He was going to respect Brian’s space. When he gave the message to Cynthia, he was convinced Brian would say no. Brian wasn’t about second chances. He’d said it yesterday: “Lesson one, fuck up and you’re gone.” Justin wasn’t blind to the fact that Brian had been talking not only about the job, but their whole relationship. Brian didn’t want him as an employee, let alone a lover.

But Brian didn’t say no. Cynthia called to say Brian would meet with him at six that evening, and _that’s_ when Justin knew they’d get back together. Suddenly lightheaded, he had to grab the doorjamb to keep from falling. If Brian wasn’t planning on having a conversation about their relationship, he would’ve scheduled their meeting over lunch. Most people would be gone by six. They’d be alone. They were either going to fight or fuck. It’d always been that way with them, and, if Justin wanted to go back, he knew he had to accept that it always would be.

_Brian_

Justin arrived at precisely six o’clock. It was a message Brian had no trouble interpreting. Neither was the fact Justin didn’t close the door. He was acknowledging the possibility that Brian might only want to discuss his internship and indicating he’d be okay with that. But there was nothing wishy-washy about the way he sat down and calmly held Brian’s gaze. Brian knew he, too, needed to acknowledge a possibility – the possibility that Justin merely wanted his job back. They were going to need to read each other. This was going to be a test of whether they still could.

Justin began to speak. “I gave it some thought,” he said, “and decided you should take me back. Even though I’ve made a few mistakes, I think you’d be making a bigger one if you didn’t give me a second chance. Because now I understand what it is that you want of me, and I know what I can expect from you.” He fell silent. They looked at one another, each wondering whether this was about Justin’s job or something more. The room was silent, but the air was as full of sparks as the sky is full of stars.

It was obvious: Justin had thrown the ball and it was Brian’s decision whether to catch it. He’d thought about this moment all day, wavering between whether to seize the chance to have Justin in his life again or pound the final nail into the coffin. By five o’clock, he’d decided what he _should_ do, but he also knew that he wouldn’t do it. If offered the opportunity, he would take Justin back; he was going to give them _both_ a second chance . . . even though he _knew_ he’d eventually regret that he gave away his heart again.

The brutal force of the hunger took him by surprise. It smashed into him, gilding his nerves with fire. He lunged for the first kiss, mouth open, need naked. Justin seemed taken by surprise, but he’d seen nothing yet. Because Brian had made another decision that day; it was the only way he could imagine that might make-up for what he’d said that night at Babylon – about Justin being nothing but a piece of blond boy ass. If the lifted duvet hadn’t been clear (as obviously it hadn’t been), this time he’d leave behind no ambiguity, no hint of doubt. 

_Justin_

He still wasn’t absolutely sure whether Brian was talking about his job when Brian mentioned working long, hard hours, but Brian’s following words made it clear he wanted Justin back. “And you’re _never_ to play violin music in my presence again,” he said, a huskiness in his voice highlighting the request he was _really_ making: Please don’t hurt me again. Justin promised. They sat looking at each other, letting the importance of the moment sink in, letting each other know beyond a doubt that this was a choice they were making voluntarily as two adult men. As two equal partners.

Justin stood, walked unhurriedly to the door, and closed it. When he turned, he saw Brian leaning against the desk, his arms crossed, his gaze directed at the floor. He looked up when Justin began walking back, but he remained tense as though he was just barely keeping himself from flying apart. Justin moved to stand before him, ready to follow his cues, but when Brian finally reached for him and Justin felt him shaking, he realized he was going to be the one in charge, the one pulling their love from the vicious sea that had almost drowned it.

Justin eased himself up onto the desk, his bare legs spreading to invite Brian’s hips between them. His whole being yearned for what was coming next. Brian was going to lay him back and enter him. The only question was whether he’d be gentle. Justin didn’t care either way; there’d be more than enough time for gentleness. It was Friday evening; they’d have all day tomorrow to reacquaint themselves with each other’s bodies, with their unique desires, with the tastes and sounds and colors. Justin’s head fell back and his eyes closed. But then panic seized him. Why had Brian stopped?

Justin’s eyes flew open. Brian must’ve seen the near-terror on his face because he put his arms around him and cupped the back of his head, holding him still so he could whisper in his ear. “Sshhhh. It’s not what you think; I won’t do that again. It scared me as much as it must’ve scared you.” Justin wrapped his arms around Brian’s neck and clung to him; now it was he who was shaking from the receding tide of adrenaline. “Why’d you stop?” he asked. Brian took a deep, unsteady breath, stepped back and held out a condom.

_Brian_

Some people buy roses, others rings. Some play sonatas; others rent suites at the Four Seasons. Whatever. Brian was never going to do any of those things. But he would let Justin fuck him, right there, right in his office, in any position Justin wanted. On his knees, on his back, riding him so hard he got rug burn. It didn’t matter. It was up to Justin. If Justin couldn’t see the “I love you” in his offer, then no words would ever be enough. From the look of awe on Justin’s face, Brian could tell that he got it.

It turned out Justin wanted him on his back, a choice that was slightly terrifying because it meant continuous eye contact. He lay back, feeling more naked than he’d ever felt before. No one had ever had him like this. Ever. And he knew Justin guessed that; he could probably tell by the spooked expression on Brian’s face. He moved slowly, letting Brian know he could renege at any time. He knelt between Brian’s spread legs and put on the condom. There was some residual lube in the packet that he used to grease his fingers. Brian closed his eyes.

Justin’s touch was gentle but sure, easing Brian open, while at the same time preserving the tightness, knowing from experience that Brian liked it to hurt, that the pain satisfied some unnamed and barely acknowledged craving at his body’s core. When he was ready, Brian opened his eyes, letting his gaze tell Justin that it was time, that he wanted this, that it meant everything Justin might think it meant – and more. Justin withdrew his fingers, and Brian bent his knees, wrapping his legs snugly around Justin’s waist and raising his hips off the floor to rest on Justin’s thighs.

Brian knew he was being made love to, and it was okay. He was okay. They were okay. As he’d known he would, Justin watched his face closely, responding to every glimmer of need. He started slow, holding absolutely still when he’d gone as deep as he possibly could. They both held their breath as Brian allowed himself to be penetrated. The flush spreading from Justin’s cheeks to his chest made it clear he could feel every minute pulse and contraction as Brian’s body simultaneously tried to push him out and take him deeper. A perfect analogy for his heart. 

_Justin_

Brian’s laugh caught him just as much by surprise as had Brian’s earlier offer of the condom. Justin stopped his measured thrusts to give him a curious frown. “Do I have to ask what’s so funny or are you going to tell me?” he asked. Brian grinned up at him. “I was thinking just now about how my heart is like my ass.” Justin raised his eyebrows – more surprised that Brian was talking about his heart than about his rectum. “In what way?” he asked warily, unsure where the conversation was headed. “They both want you in them,” Brian replied.

Brian’s goofy remark was the last think Justin recalled clearly. After their snickering subsided, Justin set to work fucking Brian’s brains out. He gripped the back of Brian’s thighs and pushed them forward, putting all his weight behind his thrusts. Then he set an unforgiving pace, praying that he could hold out until Brian came, which actually looked like a possibility. Brian’s unfaltering gaze was hazy. Justin was fucking him into a trance; he knew because Brian often took him to the same place. Justin could remember what it felt like, how all-consuming it was. How sweet and how unbearable. 

Brian’s hand on his cock seemed to move solely on instinct and not on intent. He seemed barely unconscious; Justin knew because if he was at all in command of himself, Brian wouldn’t have his mouth open and spit slicking his chin. Peaks of ecstasy weren’t always attractive in an objective sense, but Brian’s red face and rolled eyes were the most beautiful sight Justin had ever seen. When Brian’s back suddenly arched off the floor as though he was a marionette with a string attached to his navel, Justin couldn’t bear it any longer. He cried out and came.

Brian’s come was splattered all over his belly. Justin paused before pulling out to admire it. He rarely got to see Brian’s come (it usually ended up in a condom or down Justin’s throat). Justin chuckled, and Brian seemed to shake himself from a dream. “Whatz so funny?” he slurred. “Your come looks like a Pollock,” Justin replied and then snorted when he saw Brian’s baffled look. “He was an abstract expressionist.” Brian nodded. “The paint flinging guy.” Justin laughed so hard his softening cock slipped out and he had to grab for the condom to keep it from spilling.

_Brian_

Brian felt every muscle in his body give way to its relaxed state as Justin began thrusting. It was a state of physical gratitude so complete that tears pricked the corners of his eyes. Is this how he made Justin feel? Obviously not because if this was how Brian made him feel then he never would’ve left, he never would’ve doubted Brian’s feelings. Justin’s every touch was radiating love. Every kiss was a thousand thank-you’s and a thousand apologies. The tears filling Justin’s eyes said everything Brian wouldn’t let him say later, everything he needed to know to feel safe.

They dozed for a while; when they woke, Brian let Justin make love to him again. He was less overwhelmed this time, and they were able to talk while they fucked. Justin said all sorts of inane things about how he never should’ve believed Brian hadn’t visited him in the hospital. Brian tried to argue that he hadn’t known because Brian hadn’t told him, so whose fault was that? And then when they were done being serious, they got silly again. “If you love me, you’ll call me ‘pumpkin,’” Justin said. Brian rolled his eyes and called him a twat.

“Come to Babylon tonight,” he said as they got dressed. “I want to dance with you.” Justin ginned that grin that meant Brian had said something that made him happy. “I think I can cram you into my schedule,” he replied, buttoning Brian’s shirt. “And then spend the night with me,” Brian added. Justin cupped his cheek and looked at him solemnly. “We shouldn’t live together, should we?” Brian nodded. “At least not yet.” Justin swallowed. “I guess I deserve it,” he said. “It isn’t punishment,” Brian assured him. “It’s prudence. I don’t want us to fuck us up again.”

“They’re looking at us,” Justin said. Brian tore his gaze away and looked over at the boys. “Good,” he said. “Better they get used to it now than be smartasses tomorrow morning when we have hang-overs.” Justin rose onto his tiptoes and kissed him. The rush of relief that hit him made Brian clutch him against his chest as their bodies moved together. Against all odds, he’d been given a second chance. He wasn’t surprised when he couldn’t stop himself from saying The Words. “What?” Justin yelled over the music. Brian bit back a reckless laugh. “Nothing, pumpkin,” he replied. 

 

_fin._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dare I say that I actually feel pretty good about how this story turned out? To be honest, I really didn't know going into this if I could fill all the gaping chasms left behind by the show's writers. Writing this made me appreciate even more than I already did how badly they fucked up Brian and Justin's reunion. It's really infuriating because, as you can see by this story, it wasn't _that_ hard to write well. All I really added were Brian's gift of the bracelet, Justin's discovery that Brian had visited him in the hospital, and a nice, hearty Toppy!Justin scene (which, btw, I didn't warn for because I think having to warn for switching is ridiculous). Anyway, I stuck to canon like a barnacle. There's no air between this story and the show. It wasn't brain surgery, damn it! *shakes fist at writers* . . . but it was a great challenge and a lot of fun. Thank you so much to everyone who read and commented. I hope you enjoyed it.


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